


All Sorrows Are Less with Bread

by Sarahtoo



Series: The Power of the Feminine [5]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concetta Fabrizzi is one of the most vibrant secondary characters in the show. I'm pretty sure that most of us fell in love with her. My Phracking heart didn't want Jack to choose her over Phryne, but I really wanted Concetta to have her own happy ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from _Don Quixote_ by Miguel de Cervantes.

**October 1929**

Concetta Fabrizzi surveyed the building, her hand shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. She and Vincenzo had toured several properties in the last few days; now that the sale of Strano’s was complete and their grandfather had been sentenced to ten years in prison for contracting arson (the least of the crimes Concetta could lay at his door), she and her brother could move on. They’d considered going home to Italy, but Concetta knew that if she did, she’d likely be married off to some other criminal her family needed to curry favor with; she preferred to keep herself out of their reach. She wanted to get away from St Kilda, though—she was determined to be outside of City South police station’s jurisdiction, in hopes that she wouldn’t accidentally run into Gianni. And Vincenzo wanted to stay close to his Mariana, who waited in prison for her sentence—hanging—to be carried out.

Concetta and her brother had plans to open a restaurant of their own, and she wanted to make it a very different place from Strano’s. Most of the proceeds from the sale of her grandfather’s restaurant had been spent on his defense, but she had a nest egg—an account that had been her late husband’s. She’d never touched that money—she thought it was likely that he had committed unspeakable crimes to earn it—but now she felt that using it to finance a new start away from the ties to crime in her old life might wash it clean.

This building seemed like it might be the right one—the business district it was situated in was the perfect location for the lunch menu she and Vincenzo had planned. They might even expand into breakfasts if the place took off. But no more late nights and late mornings. She loved the restaurant business, but she missed the sunrise. She looked up. The glass-paned door was set between two large and currently filthy bay windows; when those windows were sparkling, though, passers-by would be able to see inside and smell the day’s bread baking.

“And there is living space as well?” She looked to the owner, a chubby man with a neat moustache.

“There is,” he said, gesturing upward. “There’s a flat above, two bedrooms and living space. Entry at the back, through the kitchen.” Vincenzo had stepped up to the window and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer inside.

“The restaurant space is good,” he said, glancing back at Concetta. His eyes were so sad these days. His relationship with Mariana had broken Vincenzo’s heart, and he swore that he would never love again. For his sake, Concetta hoped that was not true.

“Shall we go inside?” The owner asked, bustling up to the front door and unlocking it. He pulled the door open and gestured for Concetta to precede him inside.

She did so, lifting the handkerchief in her hand to cover her nose—the space was very dusty, but its bones were good. The room was narrow but deep, stretching about two-thirds of the length of the building before terminating in a wall with a door set in one side. The floors were wooden slats and looked as if they would shine up nicely. There was a built-in bar along the right side of the room that opened at both ends and would work well as a service counter and hostess station; there was even a cluster of wooden bar stools huddled in the corner by the front windows. The ceilings were high—easily twelve feet—and the walls were plastered and whitewashed, simple and classic. In her opinion, it needed some color, but a little paint or some wallpaper would fix that up. Four light fixtures with attached fans—how modern!—were set in a diamond, and would serve to keep the room well-lit and cool during the hottest months of the year.

Vincenzo paced out the space, noting its dimensions and likely calculating the number of tables they could get in—perhaps eight or ten, Concetta thought, if they kept to mostly small ones. She reached out to trail her hand over the dark wooden surface of the bar and thought better of it; the coating of dust on top was thick.

“How long has it been empty?” She asked, glancing back at the owner.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I purchased it from the estate of the previous owner. His family said that he’d planned to open a restaurant of his own, and he spent considerable time and investment in the modernization before an illness meant he had to give the idea up. I understand he’d been ill for some time.” Concetta gave a hum of acknowledgement, and continued walking toward a door set in the back wall.

“That’s the kitchen entrance, miss,” the owner said, hurrying to keep up with her.

Concetta moved purposefully onward, absently brushing at the dust that tried to attach itself to her black clothing—widow’s weeds, worn for a man who was not dead. She pondered the idea that both she and her brother were dressed for mourning—Vincenzo for Mariana, whose short life would soon conclude at the end of a hangman’s rope, and Concetta for Jack Robinson, the man she’d loved who had chosen another woman. She wished her Gianni a long and healthy life, and she hoped that he would be able to make that life with the woman he loved, but she wasn’t ready to fend off the advances of other men, and the black clothing she wore was a silent signal of that.

Shaking those thoughts away, she glanced back at the building’s owner. She had watched, amused, as he had initially attempted to aim all of his sales information at her brother. Vincenzo had deferred to her, over and over, and finally the man had taken the hint. He spoke to her as the decision-maker now, without the condescension of his earliest answers to her questions. It felt good to finally be the one in charge.

Concetta stepped through the door at the back of the room, which had a small grimy window, no latch, and hinges that swung both ways. The kitchen beyond took up the remaining third of the building’s length and was filthy but fully outfitted: A huge iron cooktop with a double oven stood in an alcove against the outer wall, and a long prep counter with open storage space above and below stretched the length of the wall along the back of the dining area. Shelves lined the far end of the room alongside an ancient-looking icebox. Directly opposite the door into the dining room was a back door that opened onto an alley, she supposed, and the wall to her right had two doors, one beside the entry into the dining room and another set at the far end. The first proved to be a water closet, and she thought the second was most likely the access door to the apartment above.

Moving into the kitchen, she positioned herself in front of the stove. The area wasn’t large, barely deep enough for a single person to walk around the long table that stretched down the middle, but it had all the elements they’d need already in place. She felt a warm rush of possessiveness. This was the place, she was sure of it. She turned to look at Vincenzo, who’d followed them into the room, and read his raised eyebrows and tiny nod as acceptance.

Crossing back to the door in the side wall, she asked, “And the living space? It is through here?”

The owner, who’d been hovering in the open doorway between the front and back spaces, started. He blushed a little when he realized she’d noticed his inattention—or rather, the fact that his attention had been on her figure rather than her words.

“Oh, yes, o’course,” he said, raising the ring of keys in his hand and fumbling through it for the one he wanted. He bustled over to the doorway and unlocked it. “This door locks so’s if you have staff in the kitchen, they won’t have access to the personal space upstairs.” He pulled the door open and swept his arm to indicate that Concetta and Vincenzo should head up. “There’s no door at the top.”

The stairway—two steps up to a small landing, and then a right-hand turn and a long, narrow flight—was dusty as well, and Concetta covered her nose with her handkerchief again, her eyes busily taking in details as she climbed. At the top, the hallway continued; a wide entryway on the right led into a modestly sized parlor, bare of any furniture, but with a fireplace set in the outside wall, likely directly above the stove in the kitchen downstairs. Continuing down the hall, she passed a second door—poking her head in, she saw that it was a kitchen, small but efficient, with stove, oven, and icebox already in place and room enough for a table. A swinging door connected it to the parlor.

Farther down, the hallway turned; it held a single doorway on the right and two on the left. The door on the right proved to be a bedroom that would back up to the kitchen. It was long and narrow and had no windows, but it was fitted with another light with an attached fan, the high ceiling giving it the impression of spaciousness.

Turning back to the hall, Concetta opened the other doors. The first door on the left was a bathroom, complete with toilet, tub, and sink; a large arched window let in plenty of light. Concetta nodded to herself. This building was fitted out well; the previous owner had clearly spared no expense if there was full plumbing even upstairs. The second door on the left was another bedroom, similar in size to the first but square, with two more arched windows along the front wall. Concetta hoped that Vincenzo would be willing to take the other—the sunlight that streamed into this room lifted her spirits. She turned to her brother.

“Vincenzo?” He met her eyes and smiled in the melancholy way that had become his norm since Mariana had been taken away. He nodded. She worried about her brother sometimes. He used to be a talker—before, he would have been gesturing wildly, pointing out the things that he liked and blustering about what he didn’t. These days, he spoke only when he had to. She hoped that this was not a permanent change, that he would eventually get over his young lover and be himself again, or at least closer to himself.

“So, _signore_ ,” she said, folding her hands at her waist and moving to stand in front of the building’s owner. “I think it is time for us to talk terms, _sì_?”

**December 1929**

Concetta and Vincenzo had sealed the deal with the building’s previous owner in October, but it took a long time before the place was ready for business or habitation. Their church community had rallied around them once they’d heard about the siblings’ investment, and every day had seen at least a few people coming to help scrub the floors and surfaces or carry furniture.

Concetta had, for a long time, been resistant to any overtures from the people of her church. She had been angry at God over her forced marriage to Paolo Fabrizzi and for putting her in the power of a man like her grandfather, who had seen her as a bargaining chip rather than as a person. And though she had continued to attend church, for appearances’ sake, she had held herself aloof from the people of the church because they did not—could not, she was sure—understand that God had wronged her. Over time, however, she’d found solace in the rituals of the mass and in the community that the church provided. She had learned that she wasn’t the only woman who was living a hard life, and she’d been befriended by several women her own age.

She had used mass and community service as an escape from her husband before he died, and as an excuse to remove herself from her grandfather’s home on a regular basis. And eventually, she came to realize that her faith had grown deeper—that she believed that the best of her life was yet to come, and that what she had been through had not broken her, but had only made her stronger. So now, when the church ladies came with their bright chatter and their community spirit, she welcomed them with smiles and laughter, knowing them for the blessing that they were.

It had taken six weeks of concerted effort, but now the windows on both floors sparkled (newsprint and vinegar and a lot of elbow grease), the floors and woodwork gleamed, and both kitchens shone. They’d set up the dining area with eight small tables, each slightly different in shape, including two round ones directly in front of the bay windows overlooking the street and one long one at the back. They’d painted all of the downstairs walls a lovely deep gold, and she’d stenciled an ivy border around the dining room two feet below the ceiling. She’d commissioned several freestanding paned-glass window frames, and she’d painted the frames black and hung them on the side walls to give the illusion of more space. Some potted greenery set on small shelves around the room gave a warm, homey feel, and the _cafetière_ set behind the long bar counter gleamed with purpose; the stacks of white mismatched-pattern teacups and small espresso cups beside it were ready for use.

The flat upstairs was sparse—all of their extra money had gone into fitting out the restaurant—but it was warm. She and her brother each had a bed and a wardrobe, and they’d managed another table and chairs for the kitchen. Someone at the church had given them a chocolate-brown sofa that was a lovely contrast to the two flowered chairs she’d found in a second-hand store along with a low coffee table that fit perfectly in front of the fireplace. Overall, Concetta was quite pleased with the result.

They’d painted the flat, too, surrounding themselves with color. The parlor and Vincenzo’s room were done in a soft blue, and the kitchen in the same gold as the downstairs dining room. Concetta had mounted another of her faux windows, complete with curtains, on the windowless outer wall of Vincenzo’s bedroom. He’d smirked at her but hadn’t removed it, so she thought he probably didn’t truly mind. Her room was done in greens, all shades, with the lower part of the wall a deep forest and the upper a soft sage. She’d stenciled a curling pattern along the seam between the two colors in black, and she was quite pleased with the result. The curtains on her windows had two layers, sheer green beneath and a gorgeous purple velvet that she’d found on sale; it had been nibbled by mice, but she’d been able to camouflage the damage with embroidery, and she quite liked the effect of the green-stemmed violets along the corners and outer edges.

Concetta stood now in the restaurant kitchen, which sparkled with its warm walls, stainless-steel fittings, and heavy iron stove, and watched Vincenzo experimenting with sandwich and meat pie combinations in anticipation of their opening day the following Monday. He was in his shirtsleeves, his black waistcoat covered with a heavy white apron, the black band of mourning stark against the white of his sleeve. Mariana’s sentence had been carried out just a few weeks ago, and Vincenzo’s smiles were tinged with sadness. Her heart hurt for her little brother, and she hoped his period of mourning would be short-lived.

“Try this one, ’Cetta,” Vincenzo said, drawing her attention back to him as he lifted the heavy iron press off of the sandwich on the griddle. “Prosciutto, mozzarella, and pesto.” He laid the hot sandwich on the wooden cutting block beside the stove and cut it into triangle quarters with a large knife. Scooping a quarter up, he held it to her lips, the unfamiliar sparkle in his eye tempting her to take a bite.

“Mmm, _squisito_ , Vincenzo!” Concetta said, raising one hand to cover her mouth as she breathed cool air over her burning tongue. The flavors of the _panino_ were fantastic, popping with Vincenzo’s basil and walnut pesto, the creamy sweetness of the fresh cheese, and the saltiness of the ham. “This one will be a best seller, I think!”

Her smile was excited. This restaurant was theirs in a way that Strano’s had never been. The two of them got to pick the menu—they planned to do pressed sandwiches, Italian-style, and the hand pies that were so popular here in Australia. They’d already decided on recipes for a chicken pie and a pork pie, both of which had a touch of their Italian heritage—the chicken was flavored with Vincenzo’s pesto and parmesan, and the pork had a marinara mixed in that gave it a delicious bite. The dough was her grandmother’s recipe, flaky and light. They hoped the pies would fly out the door. The _panini_ were a bit of a risk, but both Concetta and Vincenzo thought they’d be worth it—soft-centered crusty bread split and filled with various Italian ingredients, then pressed on the grill to heat them through and melt the cheese. This was the food of the siblings’ childhood, and they hoped that it would be a hit with their new Australian neighbors. Concetta planned to make the bread herself, daily.

“I’m going to paint the sign on the window today,” Concetta said, helping herself to another triangle of sandwich.

“Oh yes?” Vincenzo looked at her with a small smirk. “And do we know what words you’ll be painting?” It had been an ongoing debate, what to name the restaurant. He’d wanted some version of their first names, but they hadn’t been able to agree on anything.

“I was thinking _Per Pranzo_ ,” she answered with a sideways smile at him.

“‘For lunch’?” He frowned lightly, considering. “I like it. And if we decide to add breakfast service, well, none of our neighbors will know what it means anyway.” His smile was sincere. “Well done, _mia sorella_.” He swung an arm over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek.


	2. A New Restaurant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the man who will be Concetta's love, though she doesn't know it yet.

**December 1929**

On the restaurant’s opening day, they had only two customers. Concetta and Vincenzo exchanged worried glances as they locked up midafternoon. They hoped that the quality of the food and the easy accessibility from their places of work would bring more people in as time went on.

“Cheer up, _mia sorella_ ,” Vincenzo said as they finished wiping down the kitchen and storing the ingredients for the following day. “They will come. You will see.”

“I hope you are right, Vincenzo,” she said. “I hope you are right.”

On the second day the restaurant was open, there were seven customers. The third day brought twelve, and by the end of the second week, it seemed that the word had gotten out—the three hours from ten until one were packed with customers, keeping Vincenzo hopping at the grill and Concetta busy at the front of the house, filling orders, greeting customers, and clearing tables for the next round. By the time they closed their doors on the last open day of the second week, her feet were weeping, her back was creaking, and her smile was brilliant.

“Vincenzo, I think we are a success!” She said, throwing her arms around her brother and giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek. He laughed, catching her hands, and they danced a little jig around the tables. He was sweaty from his hours standing over the hot grill, but he seemed as ecstatic as she was—his _panini_ had been a huge hit, and the meat pies had elicited groans of delight. They would have to lay in extra supplies if business continued this well.

“I think I will need to come up with some additional _panini_ options—we may not be able to get enough prosciutto to keep up with demand.” His smile was incredulous. “I will make the mozzarella and the pesto this weekend, and try them with different meats. Maybe chicken or pancetta?”

“What if we baked a few hams and used those, sliced thin?” She moved away, clearing dishes and continuing to talk as she took them to the kitchen. “Perhaps with a sun-dried tomato pesto?”

Vincenzo hummed, a considering sound. “Do you think that a _caprese_ sandwich would be well received? We could even do a roast beef and provolone, if the beef is not too dear.” He nodded to himself. “I will make some notes, and we can do a rotation of _panini_ that will keep our customers happy.”

“Good idea, Vincenzo,” she said, running water into the sink to wash the dishes.

She blessed the fact that the man who had owned this building before had fitted it out with all of the modern amenities. Electricity, indoor plumbing on both levels, well-sealed windows and doors; it had raised the price of the building, but Concetta’s haggling skills, learned at her mother’s knee back in Italy, had whittled the price down to what they could afford.

The two of them were comfortable here already in a way that they never had been in their grandfather’s house. He had been a tyrant, adamant that his word was law, and he had treated her and Vincenzo as if they were game pieces rather than people; she had been forced into marriage with Paolo Fabrizzi, a pig of a man who treated her the same way her grandfather had, and worse. Vincenzo had been brought to Australia to take over the running of the restaurant, but their grandfather had not allowed him any say in the place, expecting Vincenzo to merely carry out his orders without question. Any time Vincenzo had tried to raise a new idea, Antonio had shot it down, usually with an accompaniment of a slap to the back of Vincenzo’s head for what he considered “cheek.”

Concetta could see that her brother, even through his mourning for Mariana, was blossoming with the freedom to live his life on his own terms. She hoped the same could be said for herself.

**********

Over the next several months, the restaurant continued to succeed. The lunch crowd got bigger than their tables could accommodate, so Concetta and Vincenzo decided to begin wrapping the sandwiches and meat pies in waxed paper so that they could serve the overflow. The biweekly rotation of special _panini_ was a hit, and they established a crowd of regulars who came in almost every day.

Concetta knew that her looks and her friendly nature were a draw for some of the men; most of them were open in their admiration without being insulting, and there were a few that she admired in return. She was not yet ready to step out with other men; her love for Gianni was fading the way that an unwatered flower will wither, but the hurt of it was still fresh in her mind. So she kept her interactions friendly rather than flirtatious, even with the men she admired, and she waited for time to heal her.

Vincenzo seemed to be taking the same tack; he rarely came to the front of the house—he was too busy in the kitchen—but when he did, the shop girls would titter and flock to him, admiring his fine dark eyes and his aristocratic features. He was a handsome man, her brother; Concetta made a point to refer to him as “my brother” or “ _mio fratello_ ” when she was in conversation with customers, just to make it clear that he was free.

And, she supposed, that she was free, or that she would be at some point. The men she admired of those who came in regularly were varied—an Italian man who worked the docks, a blond businessman, a red-haired accountant, a Greek grocer—and she hoped that there would come a time that she was ready to see if any of them suited her, romantically.

The Italian, Rafael Casati, had olive skin and a bright smile, and his muscular arms were a testament to the manual labor he performed all day. Rafael kissed her hand and called her “ _bella_ ” while his eyes sent messages of seduction. He teased her in a way that was familiar from her childhood in Italy, and he seemed to enjoy making her laugh. She liked his humor but worried that his mannerisms would be familiar in other ways; it was very likely that he would have the same expectations of her that her grandfather had, and she refused to become any man’s possession again.

The businessman, Percy Walker, was older than she; his bright blue eyes were kind and his body looked as if it would be trim under his three-piece suits. He seemed nice, and she thought he might want to marry her just for her cooking, though she was certain that he appreciated her looks as well. But when he smiled at her sweetly and praised her business acumen, she found herself looking for the catch—did he really think that she was a good businesswoman, or was he totting up the profits from her restaurant in his mind? No way to tell without more information, she supposed.

The accountant was named Owen Merrick, and he had dark red hair and pale skin, and so many freckles she couldn’t count them. His gray eyes were careful, and his smile was shy. If he could, he liked to take a seat at the bar and chat with her as he ate. He had a quick mind and a sly sense of humor, and she enjoyed talking with him. He asked her to teach him some Italian and she tried, laughing as he attempted to make it sound the way she said it. He was a large man, wide-shouldered and muscular, and Concetta worried a little that he was too good to be true, that his mild-mannered attitude covered a wicked temper. She’d had enough of temper with Paolo, and she had no desire to feel a blow from the back of a man’s hand again, so she watched Owen carefully.

Baltazar Haritopoulos, the Greek grocer, she saw several times a week when she went to his market to purchase the vegetables and herbs for the restaurant. He was not a tall man, a few inches shorter than she was herself, but he had wide shoulders and good hands; his Mediterranean-tan skin looked soft and his liquid dark eyes appraised her frankly each time he saw her. His smile was slow and appreciative, and intense enough that it sent a small shiver down her spine. Intense sometimes became controlling, and she was sure she wanted to avoid that.

Concetta knew that when she decided she was ready, when she opened the restaurant for the first time in a dress that was something other than black, these four men would likely be the first to ask her to step out with them. She also knew that when they did, she’d say yes and see whether any of them inspired more than friendship.


	3. A New Outlook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concetta decides that it's time to put off her mourning and take steps toward a new life.

**August 1930**

On a Sunday morning at the beginning of August, Concetta lay in her bed, thinking hard. It had been almost exactly a year since her world had changed, mostly for the better. A year ago, her grandfather had been arrested for arson, her putative fiancé had been taken in for murder, and her lover had left her for another woman. In the intervening months, she and Vincenzo had started over. They’d sold the restaurant he’d been brought here to run, bought and opened a new restaurant, cut ties with their _famiglia_ , and reinvented themselves.

With a sigh, Concetta turned on her side, pillowing her head on her hands. Of all the events of the past year, the one that had pained her the most was saying goodbye to her Gianni. She knew that it had been the right thing to do. He had been in love with Miss Fisher, and Concetta didn’t want another man who didn’t love her. But he was such a _good_ man, and she missed his company.

She also, she had to admit, missed the closeness of intimacy with a man. Her marriage to Paolo had not been satisfying, sexually—Paolo had not cared that she was a virgin, had not cared whether she found pleasure in the marital act; he had not cared, really, whether she had any desire at all. He had taken what he wanted from her, expecting that she would provide him with relief because she was his property. But Gianni? Lovemaking with him had been different. She thought that she’d probably loved him as much for the pleasure he brought her body as for the goodness of his own heart. He had shown her what being a willing—even eager—participant in the sexual act was like, and she had loved him for it.

Concetta had realized over the last few months that she didn’t want to be alone forever. She would like to marry a man whom she chose, a man whose bed she was eager to share, and whose children she wanted to bear. If she was lucky, he would also be a man that she loved and who loved her in return.

“Well,” she said to herself, pushing up to sit on the side of her bed. “The only way to find that man is to take the steps back into the world.” With a decisive nod, she rose, turning back to twitch the bedcovers into alignment, then moved to her wardrobe. Opening the doors, she surveyed her choices. She had several black dresses hanging at the front, ready for daily wear. She pulled these out and laid them on the bed. On the back row hung five dresses that she’d been working on over the last two years, beginning during her enforced mourning for Paolo and through the time of her chosen mourning for Gianni. She had known that someday mourning would end and she would need to be ready. Concetta reached to touch them, a smile flirting at her lips. She was ready, she thought. For color. For life. For a new beginning.

*****

On Monday morning, when Concetta came out of her bedroom in one of her new day dresses—this one was cream with sprigs of greenery dotted with blue flowers—she was pleased to see Vincenzo’s eyes widen. With a swish of her skirt, she pulled on an apron and began preparing their breakfast while her brother watched.

“Concetta?” Vincenzo finally managed.

“Hmm?” she replied, sliding a glance at him from the corner of her eye as she ladled chunky marinara into two small pots, layered slices of provolone over it, then cracked eggs on top. Setting the pots on a tray, she slid them and a couple of slices of bread into the hot oven and turned to face her brother.

“You— you’ve put off your mourning,” he said, obviously stunned. His hand crept up to his bicep, where the band of black circled his upper arm.

“I have, Vincenzo,” Concetta said, her voice gentle. “I am ready, I think, to move on.”

“But… but what about Gianni?” Vincenzo’s confusion was evident. “You… you loved him?” It was a question, and his eyes were those of a boy whose very world had been shaken. “How can you think of meeting someone else, if you loved him?”

Concetta came to sit beside her brother, taking his hands in hers. “I loved Gianni, _sì_ , very much. But I cannot have him. And I do not want to live my life alone, Vincenzo.” She shrugged slightly. “It is possible that a part of me will always love Gianni. Loving him made me who I am today. But there is room in my heart for someone else, for a family of my own.” She reached up to cup his cheek, seeing the tears that had started to fill his eyes. “Someday, _tesoro_ _mio fratello_ , you may feel ready to love again as well. Mariana would not have wanted you to be alone forever.”

Vincenzo blinked, and a tear fell hot against her fingers. Concetta rose, pressing a kiss to her brother’s forehead, and went to take their breakfast out of the oven.

By the end of that first day, Concetta had been asked to see a film with Rafael, to go to dinner with Percy, and to accompany Baltazar to the seashore. She had laughingly accepted all three offers, planning one for each of the next three weeks, and warning each man that she could not stay out late because she needed to be up early to bake the bread.

Concetta had expected Owen to ask her to step out with him as well, but when he saw her in her lovely frock, he flushed red and wouldn’t meet her eyes. He managed to stammer out his lunch order, but he seemed almost relieved when there wasn’t any seating at the bar and he had to take his sandwich away with him. She wondered at his behavior—either he wasn’t interested in her romantically and was unsure how to let her down now that she’d made it evident that she was available, or he _was_ interested and her unexpected appearance out of mourning dress had flustered him. She rather hoped it was the latter, in part because she found the idea adorable—this grown man, tall and broad and muscular, flustered by the idea that he might have the opportunity to take her out—and in part because she found him undeniably attractive, with his serious gray eyes and his bright red hair.

On the day of her date with Rafael, she wore another new dress, this one a deep pink striped with blue, and lunch service was so busy that it wasn’t until closing time that Concetta realized that she hadn’t seen Owen at all that day. It wasn’t that unusual, she supposed; he sometimes had to work through lunch or he brought his own lunch. Still, she felt surprisingly disappointed that she hadn’t seen him.

For her date that night, she wore her new Sunday dress of sapphire blue cotton, and its wide skirts made her feel very festive. The date was pleasant—Rafael was a nice man, a funny man. He took her to the picture show and didn’t let his hands wander once the lights went down. They walked home from the theater, chatting and laughing, and though she had fun, she realized that she was treating him like she treated Vincenzo. She didn’t feel any spark between them, but when he walked her to her door and paused under the lamp, she let him kiss her, just to be sure. His lips were soft and warm, and his arms were strong when he pulled her to him, but there was nothing there. With regret, she pulled away, noting with sadness that he appeared to feel no deficiency in their connection.

“Good night, Rafael,” she said softly, her smile soft.

“When can I see you again, Concetta _mia_?” He murmured, his hand clinging to hers.

“I will be at the restaurant tomorrow, as I always am,” she said, knowing that wasn’t what he meant.

“No, no,” he said, attempting to pull her back into his arms. “I want to see you again, _mia bella_ , to be with you, alone.”

“Oh, Rafael,” she replied, and her voice was gentle. “I think you are a wonderful man, and the right woman will cherish you… but I am not that woman, _caro_.”

His suave smile faltered.

“I think,” she went on, “that if you look inside yourself, you will see it too. You and I will be wonderful friends, I can tell, but that is all we will be.” With another smile, she disengaged her hand from his and pulled open the restaurant door, slipping inside to leave him standing alone in the dark.

When opening time came the next day, Concetta found herself watching for Owen. Rafael came in for lunch, and took his wax-paper-wrapped sandwich with a small smile. As he left, he waved and called out an “ _Arrivederci, bella!_ ” from the door. Concetta waved back and sighed with relief. She had not wanted hard feelings between them. She returned to taking orders with a smile.

On one of her many trips from the kitchen back out to the dining room, she saw that Owen had arrived and was sitting at the bar. She went up to him with a grin.

“ _Ciao_ , Owen,” she said, her tone sweet. “How are you today?”

His return smile was shy, as usual, and his color seemed high. “ _Ciao_ , Concetta,” he said in return. “I’m well, thanks.”

“I missed you yesterday,” she said, her eyes seeking his. He flushed again, deeper this time.

“Ah… yes… I, ah, had to work,” he fumbled, his eyes dropping.

“Well, I am glad you’ve returned,” she said, taking pity on him. “What would you like today? We have the prosciutto and mozzarella _panino_ you like?” As she spoke, she moved around the bar to pull a coffee cup from underneath. Owen always drank coffee with his lunch.

He smiled wider, his teeth white against the deep pink of his lips. Concetta found herself imagining how those pink lips would taste.

“That would be lovely,” he said, and she snapped back to attention. Had he read her mind? No, he was talking about the sandwich, of course. She swallowed and forced a smile.

“I will get that started for you.” She laid her hand against his forearm where it lay on the counter and felt his muscles clench beneath the sleeve of his jacket. She glanced up again to meet his eyes, knowing that her own were wide. He just nodded, and she moved away, her hand sliding slowly away from his arm.

Retreating to the kitchen, Concetta tried to shake off this attraction. What had happened to her? She went out with one man and now she wanted to kiss everyone? Laying her hand on her forehead, she turned to face Vincenzo, who was giving her a concerned look.

“’Cetta? Are you all right?” Vincenzo had taken a step away from the stove, coming toward her, and she waved him back.

“I’m fine, Vincenzo,” she took a deep breath and gave him a smile that she didn’t really feel. “I need a prosciutto and mozzarella _panino_ , please.” He gave her a searching look and nodded, turning back to the stove.

Shaking her head a little, Concetta stepped back out into the restaurant, moving from table to table, chatting with customers and topping up their drinks. When she passed the kitchen door again, she collected Owen’s sandwich and made her way back to him. He thanked her softly.

“How was your film with that Italian fellow last night?”

Concetta looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t realized that he’d known about that.

“It was nice, thank you,” she said quietly. Owen nodded, smiling at her quickly and seeming to search her eyes; he must have found it, because his smile brightened and he saluted her with his sandwich as she moved away.

The next week, Concetta’s date with Percy the businessman was slightly less comfortable than the one with Rafael. Percy was a very nice man, but when it was just the two of them, they seemed to have no common ground. They discussed the weather, the week’s upcoming menu at _Per Pranzo_ , and his business. Concetta did her best to set him at ease, but their conversation was stilted at best. Percy seemed to understand that they were not a fit, and he left her at her door with a kiss on the back of her hand. A very sweet man indeed, she thought.

The next day, Concetta wore her third new day dress. This one was her favorite—a blue-purple cotton trimmed in cream. She felt beautiful in it, and when Owen came in at lunchtime, she relished the gobsmacked look in his eyes.

“Owen, how are you?” She found herself watching his hands, which he’d folded together on the bar top; he was rubbing his thumbs together. She reached under the counter to pull out a coffee cup, then moved to fill it at the urn against the back wall.

“I’m well, Concetta,” his voice was warm, and she knew that he was watching her face. “And you, how was last night’s dinner?”

Concetta grimaced a little. “Percy is a very nice man,” she said, setting the coffee down in front of him and leaning on the counter. “But we have nothing in common.”

“Ah,” Owen said, sounding sympathetic, though she thought she saw a small smile touch his mouth. “And you are going out with Baltazar next week?”

“Yes, he is taking me to the seashore.” She frowned a little. “I do not know what we will do there, but I’m sure that he has an idea.”

“Oh, there’s plenty to do,” Owen said, smiling. “I like to swim there, especially at twilight. It’s lovely.”

Concetta’s eyebrows went up. Her imagination had supplied a picture of Owen clad in a shoulder-and-thigh-baring swimming costume, his hair seal-wet and drops of water beading on his skin. She swallowed lightly, licking her lips.

“I do not think that we will go swimming,” she said, blinking the image away so that she saw him as he was now, his dark gray suit carefully tailored and his tie swirling with shades of blue and green. That tie, she thought, indicated that perhaps he was not entirely quiet and shy all the time. She wished that he would ask her to dinner or something, but perhaps if her evening with Baltazar went well, that wish would change. She changed the subject, taking his order with a smile and moving away.

For her date with Baltazar, Concetta dressed carefully in her blue dress, and she laughed when Baltazar took her hands and kissed them.

“ _Eísai tóso ómorfos_ , Concetta,” Baltazar gushed, “you are beautiful every day, but this day, you are the most beautiful!”

“You are too kind, Baltazar,” Concetta replied, extracting her hands. “Shall we go?”

_“Tha ítan chará mou_ ,” Baltazar smiled warmly at her and held out his arm for her to take. “It would be my pleasure.”

At twilight that evening, after they’d had an alfresco dinner of fish and chips, she strolled along the beach on Baltazar’s arm. Without intending to, she found herself watching the water, not because it was beautiful—though it was—but just in case a red-haired man might appear, swimming strongly to shore. She tried to pull her attention back to the man at her side, whose conversation was funny and light and whose eyes were admiring, but to no avail. Her eyes drifted out to sea whenever her concentration lapsed.

When Baltazar left her at her door, it was with a sweet kiss to her cheek and a resigned smile.

“Whoever it was that you spent the evening looking for,” he said, and continued as she tried to sputter out a denial, “I think that you should pursue him. Any man who can capture a woman’s attention like that is a man worth knowing.”

“I am sorry, Baltazar,” Concetta said softly.

“The heart wants what it wants,” he said with a shrug. “I hope that yours gets it. Good night, Concetta. I will see you at the market.” She returned his smile and leaned in to kiss his cheek as well.

“Good night, Baltazar,” she said. “Whoever wins your heart will be a very lucky woman.”

She turned, then, and made her way inside. She knew what she needed to do tomorrow. It would not be the first time that she had offered herself to a specific man. She hoped that this time it might turn out better in the end.

The next day, Concetta dressed in her last new frock, and its deep ruby red color raised her spirits immediately. She hoped that Owen would be in today. She was confident that her nerve would hold while she wore this dress.

She floated through the morning crowd with a smile on her face, trying to keep an eye on the door, watching for him to come in. It wasn’t until nearly one o’clock that he pulled the door open and stepped inside. Concetta had been leaning over a table of women, cooing at a tiny baby one held, when she looked up and he was there. He scanned the room as he entered, and when he caught her eyes, he smiled his shy smile. She smiled back, straightening and excusing herself to walk toward him.

“ _Ciao_ , Concetta,” he said, his eyes warm on her.

“ _Ciao_ , Owen,” she replied. She tore her gaze from his to glance over at the bar, where there were two open seats. “Will you come sit?” With a gesture of her hand, she led him to a seat, then pulled out a coffee cup and filled it for him.

“And how did your evening at the seashore with Baltazar go?” He asked, taking the coffee from her, his fingers brushing hers. Concetta caught her breath.

“It was nice; we walked a while and had fish and chips,” she smiled, thinking of Baltazar’s kindness the night before.

“Will you see him again?” Owen dropped his eyes and set his cup on the counter.

“Well, he is a very good man,” Concetta said, watching him. “He will make some woman very happy.” Owen glanced up quickly, his eyes searching her face.

“‘Some woman,’ but… not you?” His tone was casual, but his eyes were not. Concetta smiled a little.

“No, not me,” she replied, her voice soft. “There is another who I hope might make me happy.”

Owen gazed at her a moment, once again seeming to look for something in her eyes. Concetta held his gaze calmly. He licked his lips and blinked, then swallowed. Reaching out, he tentatively touched the back of her hand.

“Concetta, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow evening?” The words came out in a rush, his gray eyes still wide on her face. Concetta smiled.

“Owen, I thought you would never ask.”


	4. A New Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concetta goes on a date with Owen.

**August 1930**

The next night, as she stood in the darkened front of the restaurant waiting for Owen, Concetta realized that she was nervous. Smoothing the skirt of her blue dress, she wished for a moment that she had another one to wear—one that she hadn’t worn out with other men. Owen seemed… different. More important, somehow.

With a sigh, she thought of Owen’s shy smile and the way that his cheeks had reddened when she’d touched his hand. His strong, wide hand, dusted with golden freckles and pale red hairs. She wondered if his hands would be gentle as they touched her skin. Shivering a little, she realized with a bit of a shock that she was eager to find out. She hadn’t felt this way about a man… well, ever, really. Even with Gianni, it hadn’t been until they had been lovers for some time that she daydreamed about his touch. She rolled her lips together, biting them and thinking that perhaps tonight she’d learn whether Owen’s lips were as soft as they looked.

When Owen knocked at the door, she met him with a smile; he smiled sweetly in return. Standing beside him on the walkway, she realized that she had to look up quite a bit to meet his eyes. She hadn’t realized, in the restaurant, just how tall he was. His gray suit fit his broad shoulders well, and his multicolored tie was neatly knotted. He’d tamed his red hair with pomade, and his sharp cheekbones were thrown into relief by the twilight shadows.

“ _Ciao_ , Concetta,” he said softly. “You look lovely this evening.”

“Thank you, Owen,” she replied, looking up at him. “And you are very handsome.” She watched the flush spread over his cheekbones, but his smile didn’t dim as he offered her his arm.

They walked through the warm evening to a small bistro that Owen casually told her was owned by a friend of his. Concetta realized that he’d understated his closeness with the owners when they opened the door and he was greeted like a prodigal son. He returned the owner’s hearty handshake and then looked down at her with a smile.

“Valentin, this is Concetta—she owns _Per Pranzo_. You remember, I’ve told you about their _panini_ sandwiches?”

Valentin, an older man whose head was shaved bald and whose smile was blindingly bright, took Concetta’s free hand in both of his own. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Ah, so this is the young woman who has so captivated our Owen!”

“Valentin!” Owen groaned. Concetta’s smile was sly as she slanted a look up at her escort, whose eyes had closed in mortification and whose face was bright red.

“Come, come,” the laughing Valentin guided them through the restaurant to a table for two in the back, set in a private corner. An open bottle of wine waited on the table, and Valentin poured two glasses of the ruby liquid as Owen pulled out the chair for Concetta to settle into. “You sit. I will bring you dinner, and we will see whether the cuisine of the French can compete with the Italian flavors of your food!” With a smile, he bustled away. Owen sat in the other chair, facing Concetta.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, his face still red. “Valentin is like a meddling uncle. I hope he didn’t embarrass you.”

“Not at all,” Concetta replied, taking a sip of the wine and finding it delicious. “It was charming. I had no idea that I had captivated you.” She looked up through her lashes to meet his eyes. “I find I rather like that idea.”

Owen’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, she noted. It was very attractive. His smile was wide, his teeth white against the deep pink of his lips, and she noticed that his front teeth were slightly crooked; endearingly so. She shook her head at her own thoughts, and decided to change the subject.

“So, Owen, tell me—how did you meet Valentin?”

“We served together, if you’d believe that. I enlisted on my eighteenth birthday, but the war ended while I was still in training. I ended up serving out my two-year term here in Australia, and Valentin led my company.” He shrugged. “His wife and children had been living in Dandenong, and when he mustered out, they all moved here and opened this place.” He smiled slightly and took a sip of his wine.

“And did you grow up here?”

“Mmm,” he said. “My parents have a shop in Werribee. So Melbourne area, yeah.” He cocked his head, looking at her. “You obviously didn’t grow up here—where in Italy are you from?”

Concetta smiled softly. “My family is from Calabria, from Palmi,” she said. “It is in the southern part of Italy, almost to Sicilia. The sea is very blue and the beaches are very white. _È bello._ ” She glanced down to where her fingers traced patterns on the tablecloth. “It is very small—much smaller than Melbourne.”

“What brought you to Australia?”

Concetta laughed a little, and took a sip of her wine. “My grandfather sent for me. He had a man for me to marry.”

“When did your husband die?” Owen asked, his voice gentle.

“A little more than two years ago,” she replied. Concetta dreaded his next questions. She knew that he would have to be told of her family’s history, but she didn’t want to change the way that he looked at her, as if she was special. She took another sip of her wine and opened her mouth to explain when Valentin brought them _antipasto_ to share—she supposed it would have another name in French—slices of cured meat and cheese, a bowl of olives, and small slices of baguette still warm from the oven.

They had only taken a bite or two when Owen blurted out, “You must have loved him very much.” Concetta glanced up at him, surprised; his face was reddening with a blush. “Your husband, I mean. To wear mourning for two years?”

“Ah,” Concetta said softly, wiping her fingers on her napkin. “Paolo was… not a good man. And, as it turns out, neither is my grandfather. I did not love my husband, Owen. He did not love me. I was a convenience to him.” She was proud of how calm her voice was, though she could hear the traces of bitterness in it. “Paolo was murdered as part of an ongoing feud between my family and another. I wore black for him because I was expected to, not because I mourned him.” She lifted her wine glass and took another sip. Stealing a glance at Owen, she was surprised to see that his face had tightened with anger.

“Did he… hurt you?” Owen asked quietly.

“Paolo, or my grandfather?” Concetta replied, her eyes steady on his. “Either way, the answer is yes—though my grandfather hurt me more, by treating me as if I did not matter.” She swallowed before continuing. “My grandfather is Antonio Strano—you may have seen his name in the papers?”

Owen nodded; Concetta wasn’t surprised. The tale of two warring restaurants had been sensational enough to make the papers even without the added drama of _la Camorra_.

“My grandfather was ready to marry me off to another of his criminal associates when he was arrested. The man he’d wanted me to marry was arrested too. And my brother and I,” here, it was her turn to shrug, “we moved away to start fresh.” Concetta’s eyes fell to her hands, which were fiddling with the stem of her wineglass. She didn’t want to see the knowledge that she was the granddaughter of an Italian gangster taint the regard she’d gotten used to in his eyes.

She was surprised, then, to see Owen’s hand come into view, catching one of her hands and holding it carefully. She looked up at him. His eyes were warm and serious.

“I am sorry that your family caused you pain, Concetta,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, “but I can’t be sorry that your past brought you here.”

She felt tears prickle, and when she looked down to stave them off, her eyes caught on their two hands. Her skin, with its golden glow, seemed darker than usual against the paleness of his. His palm was soft and warm, and he gently stroked his thumb across her knuckles as he spoke. With a watery smile, Concetta turned her hand to clasp his, and she nodded.

“Now, eat some more of this food, or Valentin will be over here worrying about whether something’s wrong,” Owen’s smile was warm, but he didn’t release her hand. Using his other, he fumbled to layer a slice of meat and a slice of cheese onto a piece of bread, and they both laughed. Setting the slightly lopsided pile on the edge of the plate closest to Concetta, he began to build another. She reached out to take it with the hand that wasn’t enveloped in his; it didn’t even occur to her to let his hand go.

They spoke of lighter topics through the rest of dinner. When Valentin brought their main dish, _coq au vin,_ to the table, his eyes twinkled as they reluctantly disengaged their hands.

Concetta told Owen of the purchase of the restaurant, and how she’d shopped the second-hand stores to find the things they needed to give the place its warm, homey feel. Owen told her of the woman that he’d considered proposing to before he went away to join the army; when he’d returned, though, she had met someone new and was married with a baby on the way. He admitted that his pride was more hurt than his heart had been, but she thought that there had been some heartache in it as well.

By the time they finished dessert, they were laughing at each other’s stories and groaning with how full their bellies were.

“Come on,” Owen chuckled, “it’s mousse! Mousse doesn’t take up any room in your stomach, but you haven’t lived till you’ve tasted it.” He scooped up a spoonful of the chocolate confection and held it out to Concetta. “Just one taste?” With a laugh, her hands open in front of her, Concetta capitulated, opening her mouth so that he could insert the spoonful.

The dark, luscious flavor hit her tongue and she let out a low moan. Her eyes fluttered closed as she allowed the chocolate to melt in her mouth, coating it with bittersweet creaminess. Concetta licked her lips and opened her eyes, the “mmm” escaping her throat halting at the look on Owen’s face. He had stopped, hand suspended, watching her reaction. His mouth, which had been smiling, was half open, and his eyes flared hot with desire. Concetta felt a reciprocal surge in her belly; she licked her lips and swallowed, raising her hand to cover her mouth.

“ _Delizioso_ ,” she whispered.

Owen blinked, and after a moment, he cleared his throat, his eyes dropping away from hers.

“It is, isn’t it?” He said, his throat working as he swallowed. “Do you… do you want some more?” He scooped up another spoonful and held it out to her, his eyes hopeful.

Concetta nodded, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. He really was rather adorable.

“I do,” she said quietly. “But maybe…” She reached for the spoon, taking it from him, her fingers stroking his. He swallowed again, and she felt her lips curve into a smile. Owen hurriedly took a sip of his coffee, licking his lips as he lowered the cup. Concetta took another spoonful of chocolate heaven, thinking that this dinner had been full of surprises.

At the end of the evening, standing outside the door to _Per Pranzo_ , Concetta turned to face Owen, her arm still looped through his. She smiled up at him.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Owen,” she said softly. His eyes were warm as he gazed down at her, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and he brushed the knuckles of his hand down her cheek.

“Concetta,” he said softly, and his voice caressed her name as he said it, “it was my pleasure. May I see you again?”

“I would like that very much,” she replied. She tilted her head to give him better access as his knuckles continued down to rest at her chin. His thumb nestled in the cleft there, softly rubbing.

“Tomorrow?” He blushed a little as the word tumbled out. “I mean… it wouldn’t have to be tomorrow, but maybe we could go to the shore? We could swim, if you like, or just walk…”

She laughed a little and his voice trailed off. Her hand raised to twine her fingers in his, pulling his hand from her face.

“I think tomorrow would be perfect,” she said, her voice low. She searched his face; he blinked, and she realized that his eyes were on her lips. “Would you kiss me, Owen?” The request was almost a whisper, and his eyes shot back to hers as if he was trying to see whether she was serious. He nodded jerkily and lowered his head to hers.

His lips were as soft as she’d anticipated. She hadn’t realized how warm they’d be, or how his kiss would send heat through her. On a gasp, she opened her lips against his and he took the invitation to lick his tongue lightly into her mouth. When she met it with her own, he groaned deep in his chest, and the hand that wasn’t clasped in Concetta’s pressed at the small of her back to pull her against his body. She wrapped her free hand up and over his shoulder, concentrating on the taste and feel of his mouth. This kiss had spark, on both sides, and she felt his body hardening against her belly. Her hand on his shoulder slid into his hair, cupping the back of his head as he continued to kiss her.

Long moments passed before they broke apart, both breathing hard. Concetta’s hand cupped his face, and Owen held her close, their foreheads touching.

“Good night, Concetta,” Owen breathed, his eyes still closed.

“ _Buona notte,_ Owen,” Concetta replied softly, watching him. She smiled softly at the look on his face—content and a little intoxicated. She’d seen that look before, on Jack’s face after lovemaking. She imagined that her own face held some of the same emotion. Owen’s kiss had rocked her in a way that hadn’t happened with Jack until they’d been lovers for some time. _This is good—very good_ , she thought.

After another long moment, Owen opened his eyes and lifted his head. Concetta stepped toward the door, looking back to where he watched her, his hands in his pockets.

“ _Fino a domani_ , Owen. Until tomorrow.”

Owen’s smile was tender, and he nodded quietly. “Until tomorrow.”

**********

Concetta floated up the stairs to the apartment, humming lightly under her breath. She’d hoped that the evening with Owen would go well, but it had been more than that. Almost magical. She smiled softly to herself. At the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a light on in the parlor—it wasn’t terribly late, but Vincenzo tended to be an early riser. Perhaps he’d left a light on so that she wouldn’t be coming home in the dark? When she came to the parlor door, she slowed and looked in. Vincenzo was seated on the sofa, reading.

“Vincenzo? What are you doing up?”

He looked up at her for a moment before responding. “I was waiting for you, ’Cetta.”

“Is everything all right?” Concetta moved into the room, dropping to sit in one of the armchairs. She loosened her shoes and removed them, then tucked her feet up under her.

“I don’t know.” Vincenzo looked at her, his eyebrows furrowing. “You have gone out four times in the last three weeks.”

“I have,” Concetta tilted her head at him. “Is this a problem?”

“Four different men, Concetta, and only one of them Catholic?” He burst out, gesticulating with his hands. “Is this what it will be like, now that you no longer mourn?”

Concetta’s eyebrows shot up, and she sat up in the chair. Anger was beginning to kindle in her belly.

“What are you saying, Vincenzo? That I should not go out with men?” Her voice was sharp.

“No! But… ’Cetta,” he relaxed again, his voice turning pleading. “What will people say?”

“What will people _say_?” Concetta felt the small flame begin to burn inside her. “People will say that I am a good Catholic widow, and isn’t it nice that I’m considering marrying again. Why would they say anything else?”

Vincenzo ran a hand over his hair. “I just… I could find you a good man if marriage is what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, so ‘what will people say?’ really means what they will say about _you_ , a man, _allowing_ his sister to make a decision without his permission.” Vincenzo’s expression told her that she’d hit the heart of the matter. The anger flared, white hot. “And what makes you think that you would choose a better husband than I will, Vincenzo?” Concetta stood, facing her brother with her hands on her hips. “Our grandfather chose two men for me, both of them with no regard for what I might want. I will not allow that to happen again.”

“But I would not choose that way, ’Cetta!” Vincenzo held out a hand to her, his expression pleading. “I would find you a nice man, a good man. It is my duty, as the man of our house.”

“It is your _duty_?” Concetta’s arms dropped to her sides, her hands curling into fists, as if she could hold on to the rage that coursed through her. “Who and whether I marry is not for _you_ to decide, Vincenzo.” She enunciated carefully. “This is _my_ life, and it will be my choice this time. I will marry for love, or not at all. I will not ask your permission, because you do not own me. You are my brother and I love you, so I will hope for your blessing, but do not assume that you will have any say in the matter at all.”

“But ’Cetta—”

“No!” She cut him off with a gesture, her flattened hand cutting through the air between them. “ _È abbastanza_ , Vincenzo. I have not done anything wrong, seeing these men. They are good men, and I have not done anything with them that would bring more shame upon us.” She shook her head at Vincenzo, her eyes flashing. “I _would never_ bring more shame upon us. I would have thought you knew that.”

Vincenzo closed his eyes, his head falling forward in defeat. “It’s just… ’Cetta… you were in mourning only a few weeks ago. I don’t understand why you have this sudden need to go out with men. You were happy staying in, weren’t you?”

“Oh, Vincenzo,” Concetta’s anger poured out of her; understanding was like cool water dousing the flames of her anger. Her brother was still reeling over her decision to come out of mourning. It must have seemed sudden to him, though it hadn’t been. She answered him, her voice quiet. “I was happy, yes. But the need to move on with my life has been growing for several months now. I am still a young woman, and I don’t want to go through life alone.”

She moved over to sit beside him, taking one of his hands in hers. “I know that you are missing Mariana. You probably always will,” she squeezed his hand as she heard the catch of his breath that was not quite a sob. “But the day will come, Vincenzo, when you will realize that it doesn’t hurt quite as much as it did. And eventually, you will decide that you want someone to share your life with too. Mariana would not want you to be alone forever.”

The hot splash of a tear hit the back of Concetta’s hand, and Vincenzo’s grip on her fingers was tight. “Not yet, _mio caro_ ,” she said softly, raising a hand to stroke his hair as she had when he was a child, “but someday.”

Vincenzo’s nod was small, but it was there. Tugging him close, Concetta wrapped her arms around him, knowing that only time would lessen his pain.


	5. A New Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concetta and Owen continue their courtship.

**August 1930**

The next day, a Saturday, Owen appeared at the door of the restaurant just as Concetta was locking up for the day. She smiled to see him standing there so diffidently, dressed in a sweater vest and shirtsleeves, his collar open at the neck. She had never seen him dressed casually—he always came in to the restaurant on days he was working—and she found his less formal look very attractive.

“Come in, Owen!” she said, standing aside, then locking the door behind him and flipping the sign to say “Closed.”

“I hope I’m not too early,” he said. “We didn’t say what time, and I thought maybe we could go early, while the sun’s out?”

“I would like that very much,” she said. “I have to do some cleanup work before I go, though. It may be an hour before I am free.”

“May I help? It might go faster with both of us working.” His smile was bashful, and she returned it, pleased that he’d offer to help. She’d expected him to make an excuse and say he’d come back in an hour, or even say that he’d keep her company.

“If you like,” she said, and handed him a cloth. “Will you wipe down the tables?” He nodded.

They talked about nothing in particular as they worked, but Owen’s sly sense of humor made Concetta laugh more than once; Vincenzo came out of the kitchen to see who was still in the restaurant after hours, and he raised his eyebrows to see Owen working alongside his sister.

“Vincenzo, you’ve met Owen Merrick, I think?” Concetta’s smile was bright as she introduced the two men.

“Not officially, I think,” Owen said, holding out a hand to shake Vincenzo’s. “Your _panini_ have made me unwilling to bring my own lunch anymore, Mr Strano.”

“I am glad you like them,” Vincenzo’s smile was small and guarded. Concetta knew that he was sizing Owen up, trying to decide whether the tall redhead was good enough for his sister. “And what do you do, Mr Merrick?”

“I’m an accountant—I work just down the way,” Owen’s voice was calm. He was obviously more comfortable making conversation with a man he didn’t know than he had been when he first began to talk to Concetta. “I come in most days for lunch.”

“Well, thank you for your business,” Vincenzo nodded. He looked Owen up and down, his eyes falling on the rag in Owen’s hand.

“Owen and I are going to go down to the seashore after I’m finished here,” Concetta said, forestalling what she thought might be a rude question from Vincenzo. “He offered to help so that I could go sooner.”

“Mmm, did he?” Vincenzo looked up to meet Owen’s eyes, and Concetta fancied she saw her small, slim brother put a warning into his gaze. He might not be as big as Owen was, but she knew that if Owen ever hurt her, Vincenzo would take him apart.

“I did,” Owen said, his respectful gaze never wavering on Vincenzo’s. “I had a selfish reason, really—I want to show your sister a good time before the sun goes down.”

“Ah,” said Vincenzo. “Well, have fun then. Concetta, I’ll see you this evening. I can finish up here if you want to go get changed.”

Concetta’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “ _Grazie_ , Vincenzo,” she said softly, and she turned to Owen. “I would like to change—I’ll be right back, all right?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Owen said with a smile.

Concetta walked away; when she reached the kitchen door, she glanced back at Owen and Vincenzo, who stood unmoving. She sighed and quickly crossed to the apartment doorway. Vincenzo was about to interrogate Owen, and all she could really do was hurry and change so that she could come back to rescue him.

When Concetta came back downstairs, Vincenzo was alone in the kitchen, scrubbing the appliances so that they’d be clean for Monday’s work.

“Where is Owen?”

“He is waiting at the counter for you,” Vincenzo said, his tone even.

“And did you ask all of your questions, _babbo_?”

Vincenzo slanted her a look. “ _Tuo padre non è qui_ , so who else but me?”

“ _Arrivederci_ , Vincenzo,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “I will be back later.”

“Concetta,” he said as she neared the kitchen door. Slowing, she looked back at her brother, who stood with his back to her, his scrubbing rag never stopping.

“ _Sì?_ ” she replied, her hand on the door into the dining room.

“He seems like a good man,” Vincenzo said softly. “Have a good time.”

Concetta’s smile was quick and grateful. “ _Grazie,_ Vincenzo.” He nodded, his eyes on his work, and she smiled slightly as she pushed through the door.

Taking a deep breath, she approached Owen. Stopping in front of him, she looked him up and down; he watched her, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Is everything all right?” He asked quietly.

“I’m just checking to see that you are in one piece,” she said quietly. “I am sorry about Vincenzo—he is protective. I hope that he wasn’t too rude to you?” She stepped close to Owen, her hands clasped in front of her, unable to meet his eyes, even through her attempt at levity.

“He loves you,” Owen said quietly. “Of course he’s protective. I’m fine.” He caught her chin in his fingers, his thumb lightly rubbing the dent there, and tilted her head to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said again, and leaned down to lay a soft kiss on her lips. “Now, shall we go?”

Concetta, whose eyes had drifted shut at the touch of his mouth, sighed a little and opened them. She met his gray eyes, searching them for anger or concern, and when she found neither, her smile was bright. She nodded, and he turned his body to offer her his arm; she tucked her hand around his bicep, and they set off.

**September 1930**

As the days warmed into spring, Concetta stepped out with Owen several times a week. He came into the restaurant for lunch almost every day, and she’d taken to saving him a seat at the counter. She’d fended off several more invitations to dinner from various customers, smiling gently as she refused them. She wasn’t interested in going out with anyone but Owen.

Their dates took them to the theater, back to Valentin’s restaurant, and even to a museum, but the seashore became their place. Owen would stop by often after his workday was finished to ask her to take a walk with him. They spent hours wandering the shore together, laughing and kissing. They found many dark corners to duck into—between and behind the bathing sheds, under the dock, in a copse of trees—and as the weeks passed, kissing turned to petting, and it got harder each time to stop.

They talked as well, on those long walks, each of them sharing the business of their days. Concetta found that Owen was a good listener, and he was able to calm her irritation when she’d had a difficult customer or a frustrating supply issue. She found that she loved to listen to Owen’s stories of his day; he told them well, and she liked the insight into what his work told her about his mind.

“It’s a difficult business sometimes, accounting,” he began on one such walk. “You’d be amazed at what some people consider reasonable expenses. I have one client who has to have a specific kind of pencil manufactured from a particular type of wood found only in the Amazon jungle. He’s a cobbler, and he goes through at least a dozen of these things a month, at a shilling and sixpence apiece!”

Concetta gasped at the expense. “So much! For pencils?” She shook her head. A shilling and sixpence apiece, and a dozen pencils in a month—that was as much as she spent on a week’s groceries for the restaurant. The extravagance was astonishing.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “I suppose it depends on your priorities. But at least he’s honest.”

“You have some who aren’t?” Concetta looked up at him, her arm wrapped around his bicep, only half listening as she admired the way that the setting sun made a halo around his bright head.

“Sometimes. It can be unintentional. Some people don’t understand what the legalities of business are, and that there are boundaries as to how business monies should be spent. Or there should be.” He glanced down at her as he spoke.

Concetta loved that he didn’t talk down to her in these discussions. So many men would have, just because she was a woman.

“And there are some who want us to help them fudge their books, to make whatever illegalities they’re toying with less obvious.”

“What?” Her attention wholly captured, Concetta gaped at him. The idea that crooks might try to corrupt him sent a shock through her, though she supposed it shouldn’t have. After all, she was intimately familiar with criminals and how they thought. “But you do not do that, Owen, surely?”

He shook his head. “Oh no, definitely not. Our policy is to refuse and to encourage the asker to find another firm if they can’t take no for an answer.”

“You do not report them to the police?” Concetta’s stomach fell.

“We could, if what they’re hiding is harmful to people, but so far that hasn’t come up. Just things like how much they’re saving by purchasing from illegal sources, or that they’re buying things that need to be smuggled into the country.” Owen shrugged.

“And it does not bother you that these people are criminals?” She knew that her tone was sharp—too sharp for what had been said, but the swooping in her stomach was building into nausea now. She would not be able to stand it if Owen had criminal leanings.

He glanced at her again, surprised. “They’re not hurting anyone—” he began.

“But they are breaking the law,” she cut in, her free hand waving. “There is no excuse for that.”

“True. But this kind of crime would just keep the police from investigating more important things, and we can often talk them out of committing the fraud at all.” His voice was calm and controlled, but she could see the color rising in his face. “Besides, if we reported it every time a customer wanted to distort the truth, we’d never get another client.”

“So it is more important for your firm to keep clients than to be honest?” She spat at him.

“What? No, that’s not it at all,” he shook his head, looking down at her in confusion. “We do our best to keep the accounts we work on completely on the up-and-up. I would _never_ falsify information for a client.”

“How are you so understanding, then, about those people who do?” Concetta could feel the nausea consolidating into a seething ball of fear and dread. Owen could not be so accepting of criminal activity—she needed for him to be wholly honest. A small part of her shouted that that was an unreasonable expectation, that every person made compromises every day to live in the world, but she refused to listen to it.

“People who are willing to go around the rules in the small things will also eventually try to find their way around the big things,” she said, her voice heated. She motioned in a curvy back-and-forth manner with her free hand, describing a snakelike pattern in the air. “It is easy, once you have made one exception, to make another. And another after that.”

Owen stopped walking and turned to face her, his hands on her arms strong but not squeezing. She stiffened nonetheless, ready to defend herself against his anger if she should need to.

“You’re right. And we _don’t_ go around the rules, Concetta,” his cheekbones were red with anger now and the flush had spread to his ears, his pale skin showing his agitation. “But we also can’t keep other people from doing so.”

“Don’t you think that if they’re cheating, someone needs to do something about it?” She was not yet willing to give up the point, even though she could see his anger building. She pressed a hand to her roiling stomach.

“If they were hurting someone other than themselves, yes. Definitely. And I would do everything in my power to make sure that they paid the price.” His voice was controlled, and he rubbed his hands along her upper arms, attempting to soothe her. “But in this case, it’s _their_ business they’re hurting; it’s _their_ lives that will be affected if their scheme goes wrong. All we can do is refuse to participate.”

“But—”

“Why does this worry you so much, Concetta?” Owen interrupted, giving her a searching look.

“Because it can so easily become more!” She broke away from his hold, which had remained amazingly gentle, she noted with a part of her brain. “Because this is how criminal organizations start—this is how _la Camorra_ started, with small dishonesties that built into a sense that the world owed them something, everything.” She was ranting now, her voice rising, her hands whipping through the air.

“What is it you want me to do, Concetta? Lecture them on the immorality of cooking their books? Report every inappropriate expense?” He opened his hands to his sides, his eyebrows coming together over his nose, his nostrils flaring with temper. “How do I tell where that line is? Is it all right to let yourself get gouged on the price of new tools for your shop, but not all right to claim that you bought five plates when you really bought ten because they fell off the back of a truck? Should I also report the man who’s inflating the price? Where does my responsibility end?” He pressed his lips together, fighting for control; breathing hard, he brought one hand up to tap his chest. “I have to make that decision each time it comes up, based on what I know and what I can enforce. I can’t control everyone else. I can only control myself.”

His voice had gotten quieter as he ranted, and considerably more intense toward the end. Owen shook his head, shutting his eyes and planting his fists on his hips. Concetta could see him battling with his temper, and as she watched him, she realized that she wasn’t afraid. She’d lived with Paolo for long enough that when he’d been angry, she’d known that there was a fair chance that he’d hit her at least once, and that he’d force her into bed to assert his power and release his fury. Neither was a pleasant experience, so she’d learned to see his rages building and stay away.

Owen, raging, was beautiful. His cheeks flushed and his eyes flashed; the tendons in his neck stood out and his jaw flexed. Even his narrowed eyes, bunched eyebrows, and flaring nostrils called to Concetta. She was abruptly certain that this man, unlike her late husband, would never lift a finger to hurt her. _He says he can only control himself_ , she thought, _but he does not know just how rare that control is._

Concetta felt the knot in her belly loosen with the realization that she had no need to be afraid of this man. With that realization came another—she had no idea why she was arguing with him, really. Sighing, she dropped her combative stance, stepping up to place her hands on his face and kiss him softly. Owen’s eyes popped open in confusion.

“What—”

“ _Mi dispiace_ ,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing herself into him. “I am sorry. You are right—you are doing everything you can. I should not have pushed you so.”

His hands moved around her, holding her close. “What just happened?”

“I do not know, exactly,” she said, clinging to him. “I think I was afraid—I could not stand it if you were involved in something criminal. You are too good.”

“That isn’t something that you need to worry about, Concetta,” he responded. “I’m not perfect, but I do know what’s right. I have no interest in getting anything I haven’t earned.”

She hugged him hard, then pulled away, taking his hands in hers and looking down at them to avoid his eyes. “I think also that I wanted—no, I needed to know what you were like when you get angry.”

“So you made me angry on purpose?” His face was stricken.

“No, no,” she replied, bringing their joined hands up to her mouth and kissing them. “Not on purpose! I did not plan it, _mio caro_. I did not even know that I needed it, but...” She rested her chin on their entwined hands and sighed, closing her eyes. “My husband used to get angry,” she said softly. “Not always at me, but it was always me who paid the price.”

“Oh, Concetta,” Owen said, stepping closer to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “Never.”

“I know this,” she said, lifting her face to his. He searched her eyes, and she tried to show him how sincere she was. “You are nothing like Paolo, Owen Merrick.”

He kissed her then, sweetly, their hands still clasped between them. When he finally broke away, it was only to lay his forehead against hers.

“You will never have to fear me, Concetta Fabrizzi. I swear it.” His voice was low and fervent.

Concetta breathed in Owen’s words, taking them deep into her lungs. _I love him._ The thought formed in her mind, simple and complete, and she opened her eyes to meet his, marveling at the strength of the emotion coursing through her. Deep inside her chest, she felt the loosening of knots she’d tied to keep herself together over years of neglect and abuse. Jack had tried, with his sensual tutelage, to help, but he had never managed to undo more than the ones on the surface. Owen had pulled a single strand and they’d all fallen away, leaving her lighter, looser, with every sense stretching in freedom. She’d loved Jack, she knew she had, but this was so much more—a river pouring through her, clean water soaking every pore. Her past could not be washed away completely, but at least some of the grime left behind by her treatment at the hands of her husband and her grandfather was sloughing off.

“I believe it, _tesoro mio_. I believe _you_.” As she spoke, Owen’s face relaxed into relief, and Concetta wrapped her arms around him. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her smile was even brighter.

**October 1930**

One warm evening, Owen and Concetta laid out a blanket for a picnic in the park. Concetta had made gnocchi marinara and fresh bread, and she’d baked an apple _torta_. Owen had eaten everything she’d put in front of him, his small pleasured noises reminding her of the sounds he made when kissing her—perhaps he enjoyed the way she tasted too. When he’d finished, Owen lay back on the blanket, replete.

“Rest with me, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out a hand to her.

With a smile, she lay down beside him, her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Concetta closed her eyes and breathed him in. He smelled of shaving cream and soap, and his sweater vest held a hint of eucalyptus washing powder; underneath those scents she detected the spicy musk of his skin.

For a long while, they didn’t speak. It was a comfortable silence, each of them wrapped in their own thoughts, neither feeling the need to fill the space around them with words. She could hear the distant voices of the other people enjoying the park, parents and children throwing a ball around, young women laughing and giggling, the shouts of a game of footy happening on the green. She listened to the sound of Owen’s heartbeat, her hand on his chest as she relaxed in the sunshine.

When Owen spoke, she first heard his deep intake of breath, and then his quiet words rumbling in his lungs; she was so absorbed in that minute level of detail that it took her a moment to register what he’d said. His meaning finally hit her and she raised her head to meet his eyes, her own wide.

“What did you say?”

Owen met her eyes, and his own were serious and vulnerable. He swallowed hard, then repeated himself.

“I love you, Concetta.” His voice was quiet; his hand resting at her hip had tightened, and his thumb, which had been making small circles against her waist, had stilled. His whole body seemed to be frozen in suspense.

Concetta let out a soft gasp. That’s what she’d thought he said. What she’d hoped he’d said. Her smile, when it came, was brilliant, even though her eyes filled with tears.

“Owen,” she breathed, “I love you.” She tilted her head, watching his expression relax into a brilliant smile of his own.

Pushing herself up, she kissed him; his arm tightened around her, drawing her close to his chest, and his other hand reached up to cup her face. Their kisses grew more heated, and Owen rolled toward her, switching their positions. Concetta hummed her approval of this change, relishing the feeling of his body stretched alongside hers, the weight of him as he partially covered her.

After long moments, Owen lifted his head and gazed down at Concetta, his breath coming quickly. His fingers stroked her cheek, and his mouth lifted in a wondering sort of smile. His smile faded quickly, though, and Concetta’s did too—she could see worry in his eyes.

“What is it, _amore_?” She asked, her own hand rising to his face.

“Concetta…” he said, his voice trailing off. He licked his lips, closing his eyes for a moment—appearing to gather his courage to say something. “Concetta, will you marry me?” At her shocked expression, he hurried on. “I know I’m not exciting or exotic—I’m only a man who loves numbers, and you’re so spectacular, you could have anyone, but I _do_ love you, so much, and I would do my best to make you happy, and—” He broke off when Concetta laid her fingers over his lips.

“ _Mia cara uomo,_ ” she felt the tears rush to her eyes, _“io sono la donna più fortunata del mondo._ ” Her fingertips trailed from his lips to his cheek, and she smiled tremulously. “I am the luckiest woman in the world,” she repeated. Now, though, it was her turn to swallow hard, her smile fading. “I so want to accept,” she said softly, “but first, there is something I must tell you. I want there to be no secrets between us.”

Owen’s eyebrows drew together, and his face, which had brightened at her first statement, fell at her second.

“Tell me what, Concetta?” His voice was warm. “There is nothing you could tell me that will change the way I feel about you.”

“I hope that is so,” she said. Gathering her courage, she said, “I have told you of my husband, _sì_?”

Owen nodded, his lips thinning at the mention of the man who’d hurt her.

“I wore mourning for him because it was expected of me, but only for the first year. For the second year, I wore mourning for someone else.”

Owen shifted and sat up, helping her to do the same. He kept her hand in his as they sat side-by-side on the blanket.

“There was a man,” Concetta went on, “a policeman I met when he investigated Paolo’s death. We became friends, and then we became… more than friends.” She looked at Owen’s face, hoping that her meaning was clear. He blinked, and then swallowed.

“You loved him?” Owen’s words were quiet, and he dropped his eyes to their joined hands.

“I did, very much,” she confirmed softly. “And he cared for me in return.”

Owen’s head came up at those words, shock on his face.

“He didn’t love you?” His eyebrows drew together, disbelief and anger clouding his face. “And yet he…”

“It’s all right, _mio caro_ ,” she said. His disbelief soothed her in a way. “Jack—that is his name—is a good man. I think that he wanted to love me, but his heart was claimed by another. He never hurt me—in fact, I think that he helped me. You know that Paolo was… not kind to me. Jack showed me what the act of love between a man and a woman should be. I will be forever grateful to him for that.”

Owen nodded, but as if he understood what she was saying, not in agreement. His eyes slid away from hers as he thought, and his eyebrows didn’t relax. After a moment, his eyes snapped back to hers.

“Wait, his name _is_ Jack—he didn’t die?” He blushed a little. “I mean, not that I wanted him to die, but… you wore mourning…”

Concetta smiled sadly at him.

“He did not die, but he did choose another over me,” her eyes were dry as she gazed at Owen. “It is good, really,” she said, and it was her turn to look down to where their hands lay together on Owen’s knee. “It was painful, but I knew, even then, that I wanted to marry for love. And if he did not love me, he was not the right man for me.” She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles and raised her gaze back to him.

“I wore mourning for the _idea_ of him, really, and to give myself time to get past those feelings. I knew that someday, I would find another man—a man for whom I would be the right woman, and who would be the right man for me.” She looked at Owen, knowing that her heart was in her eyes. “Does this change the way you feel for me, Owen? To know that I loved this man?”

“Oh, Concetta, no,” Owen said softly, and he raised his hand to her cheek again, his thumb resting in its familiar spot in the dent of her chin. “I don’t understand how any man could not love you, but I am rather glad that he left you to me.”

“You do not think that I am a sinner, because I had this affair?” She searched his eyes, watching for signs of disgust or condemnation, but all she saw was calm acceptance. He shook his head.

“I would never begrudge you pleasure,” he said quietly. “I don’t consider you a sinner—if the time you had with this Jack helped you to get past what Paolo did to you, I am thankful.” He pressed his lips together as his eyes scanned her face. His thumb moved to brush over her full lower lip. “If you still loved him, it might break me, but…”

Concetta pursed her lips to kiss the pad of his thumb.

“A love unreturned withers and dies,” she said. “I did love Jack once, but now, my heart is full of someone else.” She caught his hand and pulled it away from her face before leaning in to kiss him, her lips feathering over his.

“Then marry me, my Concetta,” Owen said against her mouth, and she smiled to feel the words gust over her lips.

“Yes, _mio cuore_ ,” she said, her arms coming up to snake around his neck.

“You will?” He smiled a little with the words.

“I will,” she said, and she felt her own smile stretching her mouth.

Owen caught her close, a jubilant laugh escaping him as he pulled her into his lap. She squealed out a laugh of her own, and neither saw the indulgent smiles of the other park-goers who watched as their lips met in a tender yet passionate kiss.


	6. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concetta and Owen tell Vincenzo of their plans, and some special guests come to the restaurant.

**October 1930**

Once the decision to marry was made, neither Concetta nor Owen wanted to wait. When they told Vincenzo of their plans, both expected there to be some resistance. He had remained distant from Owen over the months of their courtship, and though Concetta thought that he liked Owen well enough, she knew that it was difficult for him to see her so happy.

“Congratulations,” Vincenzo said quietly, though his eyebrows rose in surprise. He looked hard at Owen, who met his gaze calmly. “You are Catholic?”

“Vincenzo, _per favore_ , do not interrogate him,” Concetta said, reaching to touch the back of Owen’s hand where it rested on the bar. He turned it over to link his fingers with hers, smiling.

“It’s all right, Concetta. No, I’m not, but I’m planning to convert,” Owen replied. They had discussed this. She had told him that her faith had been shaken during her marriage to Paolo Fabrizzi, but in the years since Paolo’s death, she had come back to the church as a community and to a God who had steered her to where she was today.

“Without Paolo, I would not have met Jack, and if I hadn’t known Jack, Vincenzo and I would not have come to this neighborhood to open our restaurant. And then I would not have met you,” she had told him, and smiled. “I believe that this, you and me, was God’s intention behind my journey to Australia all along. He has put me in a place to find my happiness.”

Owen had kissed her, and said that if it was important to her to be married in the church, he would take steps to make that happen. He told her that he had been raised Presbyterian, but that neither of his parents had been particularly devout, so he had fallen out of the habit of going to church. It would be an adjustment, he had said, but worth it for Concetta. He planned to speak to her priest as soon as possible about taking the necessary classes.

At the news that Owen would convert, Vincenzo had nodded.

“And you will allow Concetta to continue with the restaurant?” He asked next.

“Vincenzo!” Concetta looked at Owen with concern; his face showed surprise. They hadn’t talked about this, and as much as she didn’t want Vincenzo to batter Owen with questions, she was interested in Owen’s answer.

“I want Concetta to do what makes her happy,” he said carefully, glancing at her. “If she wants to continue with the restaurant after we marry, I will support that. It seems wise to me, in today’s economy, that both of us work if we can, but it would be up to her.” He smiled at Concetta, who returned it, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“And when the _bambini_ come? Will you ask her then to stop and stay home?” Vincenzo’s voice was still quiet.

“I think that she and I will discuss that when the time comes,” Owen replied. Concetta nodded.

“We will decide that together,” she said, laying her other hand atop their joined fingers.

Vincenzo nodded. “Where will you live?”

“We wanted to talk with you about that, actually,” Owen said, glancing at Concetta. “I have an apartment just two blocks away, and my lease expires at the end of January. We were thinking that either we could move in there for the first few weeks after we marry, or you could, if you wanted some bachelor time away from the restaurant. And once the lease is up, we could all live here, to share living expenses.”

Vincenzo nodded slightly, considering. “I would imagine that your apartment is more suitable for a bachelor than for a married man. I will live there after the wedding, until the lease is up.”

“Thank you, Vincenzo!” Concetta cried, moving her hand to grasp her brother’s.

“Eh, you will need some time alone for a honeymoon,” he said with a shrug. “Unless you plan to go away?”

“We thought it would be too hard to go away right now,” Concetta said, “we did not want to leave you to handle the restaurant on your own.” She exchanged a warm glance with Owen. “We will take some time later, when things are more stable.”

“And anyway, we don’t need time away to celebrate being married,” Owen said with a small smile. “Coming home to Concetta will make me the luckiest man in the world, even if we never travel.”

Vincenzo smiled slightly at that, Concetta noted, though his eyes were still sad.

“That’s because you haven’t tried to share a kitchen with her,” Vincenzo said, straight-faced. “She’s bossy. It’s too late to take it back now, though. You’re stuck with her.”

Owen laughed at Concetta’s mock affronted look, and she thought, _It’s going to be all right after all._

**********

One Saturday in mid-October, Concetta turned to greet an older couple as they came into the restaurant right before closing time. The man was tall and rail thin, his red hair graying at the temples; the woman with him was of average height, slightly shorter than Concetta, and considerably more round. Her black hair was pulled back in a simple bun at the base of her neck.

“ _Ciao_ , and welcome to _Per Pranzo_ ,” Concetta said with a smile. “Please come in, sit down.” She gestured to an open table in one of the bay windows. “May I get you a coffee or a tea?”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” the woman said as she took the seat the man held out for her.

“Coffee for me, please.” The man’s smile was bright and engaging as he seated himself.

“ _Certo_ ,” Concetta nodded. As she bustled away to get their drinks, Concetta felt a niggling sense of recognition. Something about the woman…

Returning to their table, she transferred the tea things and the coffee from her tray to the table and smiled at them both.

“Would you like something to eat today? A meat pie or _panino_?”

“Only if you’ll sit down and join us, dear,” the man said, his bright blue eyes twinkling at her. When she gave him a puzzled look, he smiled wider. “You are Concetta Fabrizzi, are you not?”

Concetta felt a thrill of fear, and her smile fell away. This man didn’t look like any of the _Camorra_ she knew, but how did he know her name? At her slight withdrawal, the man’s face fell.

“I’ve frightened you, I’m sorry! Let me introduce myself. My name is James Merrick, and this is my wife, Ida. We’re Owen’s parents.”

Relief swept through Concetta, followed closely by sheer terror. Owen’s parents? He hadn’t told her they were coming to visit, and here she was at the end of her workday, messy and unprepared. What impression would they have of her?

“Oh, _Dio mio_ ,” she managed, “Mr Merrick, Mrs Merrick—Owen did not tell me that you were coming. I am so sorry that I did not have something ready for you when you arrived!” She raised her hands to smooth her hair, tucking flyaway strands behind her ears.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mr Merrick chuckled. “We didn’t tell Owen what we intended. Thought we’d surprise him. And when we got here early, and we knew that he would still be working, well. We figured, why not find the restaurant of his young lady and introduce ourselves.”

“Of course! I am so pleased to meet you,” Concetta forced her lips into a smile. “Let me get you something to eat. It is closing time, or near enough, and I can sit with you.” She turned to smile at Mrs Merrick, who smiled back, if a little tightly. “ _Scusi._ ”

Concetta blessed the fact that the rest of the day’s customers had gone as she moved over to lock the front door and turn the sign to “Closed.” Sending another smile in the Merricks’ direction, she headed toward the back of the dining room. Her hands smacked against the door of the kitchen as she pushed through it, stepping to one side and making sure it stopped swinging before moving, wide-eyed, to her brother.

“Vincenzo,” she hissed. “Owen’s parents are here! What am I to do?”

“His parents? But not Owen?” Vincenzo’s surprise was evident.

“No! And they want me to sit and eat with them!” Concetta knew her eyes must be wild. She had known she would meet Owen’s parents eventually, but she thought that Owen would be with her and she’d have had a chance to prepare. And that she’d be clean, not sweaty and tired after a full day’s work. _Breathe_ , she told herself.

“Then we will feed them, and you will sit with them and eat.” Vincenzo’s voice was matter-of-fact, and he turned to assemble three _panini_ with quick, praticed motions. “You will be fine. Owen loves you. That is what matters.” He flicked a knowing glance at her as he put the sandwiches on the griddle and laid the hot iron on top of them. “You go on. I will bring these out when they are ready.”

Concetta pressed her shaking hands to her stomach and nodded. Reaching back, she untied her apron and pulled it off, hanging it on the hook beside the door. She smoothed her hands down the skirts of her purple dress, then took a deep breath.

“ _Grazie_ , Vincenzo,” she said, as she pushed back out into the dining room. With a shaky smile, she crossed back to Owen’s parents, passing behind the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee as she did so.

“My brother is making our sandwiches—do either of you need another drink?” She forced a smile as she set her cup down on the table, scanning theirs with the smoothness of long habit.

Both Merricks shook their heads; Mr Merrick smiled at her and stood to pull the third chair at the table out for her, and Mrs Merrick pursed her lips and took a sip of her tea. Swallowing, Concetta sat.

“So how long are you staying in Chelsea?” She hoped the question sounded casual. Nerves were chilling her fingertips, so she warmed her hands on her coffee cup.

“Just the night. We have to open the bookshop on Monday.” Mr Merrick’s answer was cheerful, and he settled comfortably back into his chair. “We were hoping to take you two to dinner tonight, actually, if you’re free?” Concetta was caught by the way his eyes twinkled, and when he smiled, she saw Owen—James Merrick had the same slightly crooked front teeth. She was obscurely comforted by that.

“I think that would be lovely,” Concetta said.

“We understand that you come from southern Italy?” Mr Merrick asked, and the conversation was off. They traded a few general questions about Concetta’s childhood, the restaurant, and the Merricks’ bookstore.

“I love to read, but I speak English better than I read it,” Concetta admitted softly. She had seven books in Italian that she’d read multiple times; she’d attempted some books in English but they took her too long to get through. She had managed to finish one or two, but those stories had been exceptional.

“We have a few books in Italian in the shop,” Mr Merrick said. “I’ll take a look, maybe we’ll find one that interests you.”

“Thank you, Mr Merrick,” Concetta answered. “That is very kind.”

“Please, call me James,” he said.

“And you both must call me Concetta, of course.”

When Vincenzo came with their sandwiches, he only stayed long enough to be introduced, then excused himself, citing his disarray from being in front of the stove for so long. The Merricks smiled and thanked him—even Mrs Merrick, who had yet to smile at Concetta—before tucking into their prosciutto and mozzarella _panini_.

“This is delicious!” Mr Merrick’s eyes had closed at his first bite, and he chewed slowly, appearing to savor every moment.

“It really is,” Mrs Merrick said, between her own bites. “Please give your brother our compliments.”

“Of course. He will be pleased that you like them.” Concetta smiled again, trying to connect with Owen’s mother, but the woman’s eyes skittered away.

_What is wrong?_ Concetta thought. _Does she not approve of me because I am a widow? Because I am from Italy? Because I run my own business?_

“We understand that Owen has asked you to marry him,” Mrs Merrick said abruptly.

“He has, yes.” Concetta said softly, putting her sandwich down. “We hope that you both are planning to come for the wedding? We’ve decided on November twenty-second.”

Mrs Merrick put her own sandwich down and wiped her hands on her napkin, finally meeting Concetta’s eyes. Hers were the same gray as Owen’s, Concetta realized. Again, the physical resemblance to her beloved calmed her.

“That’s very soon. You’ve only been seeing each other for a little while. Are you certain that you’re ready to marry?” Mrs Merrick’s voice was soft but not tentative. This was what she’d hoped to say today, Concetta realized.

Concetta met her gaze, and saw the concern in those so-familiar eyes. This was Owen’s mother. Just because your child grows up doesn’t mean you stop worrying about him. Concetta kept her voice gentle when she replied.

“It must seem fast to you, I know. It doesn’t seem so to me. To us. Owen and I have known each other for almost a year now. We have only been stepping out for a little while, but I know enough.” She smiled, thinking of Owen. “I know that he makes me happy. And I know that I make him happy too.” Concetta reached out a hand, covering Mrs Merrick’s where it lay on the table. “I am in love with your son, Mrs Merrick, and he loves me in return. That is a miracle that I never thought I would find. He is my miracle.”

The smile that touched her future mother-in-law’s mouth was small at first, but it grew, and Concetta noticed that she had the same fine lines around her eyes when she smiled that Owen did. Mrs Merrick nodded and turned her hand underneath Concetta’s to return her clasp.

“Please,” she said. “Call me Ida.”

“Now, with that settled,” Mr Merrick said with a clap of his hands that made both women jump, “what time shall we collect you for dinner, Concetta? Ida, love, are you going to finish that sandwich?”

Ida glanced at Concetta and laughed.


	7. A New Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY we get to where this story starts to earn its E rating...

**October 1930**

When Owen and his parents came to fetch Concetta that evening, she felt much more prepared. She had showered and fixed her hair, and she wore her lovely blue Sunday dress.

“ _Ciao,_ Owen!” Her smile was bright, and she stepped close to take his arm and receive the kiss he laid on her cheek.

“I’m so sorry they ambushed you,” he whispered in her ear as he rested his cheek against hers. She pressed her face against his briefly, and squeezed his bicep, hoping he’d understand that she was all right.

“Hello again, Concetta,” James said, and his eyes twinkled down at her. Ida watched them together, her smile small and tender.

“ _Buonasera,_ James, Ida,” she nodded at them. “Where are we going?”

“I thought to Valentin’s,” Owen replied. “Does that sound all right?”

“ _Perfetto_ ,” Concetta looked sideways at Owen’s parents as the group set off down the sidewalk. “Valentin spoils us. Have you been there before?”

“Oh yes,” Ida replied. “James loves his beef Bourguignon, and he does a duck cooked with rosemary and oranges that I adore. I take it that the two of you have been there before?”

“Oh _sì_ ,” Concetta nodded. “Owen took me there on our first date.”

“And Valentin managed to embarrass me practically the moment I walked in the door,” Owen drawled wryly. Concetta laughed.

“It was sweet! He loves you.” She told the story of Valentin’s description of how she’d “captivated” Owen with a smile, and his parents laughed.

“Well, it was the truth,” Owen pressed a kiss to Concetta’s temple. “I think I loved you even then.”

Concetta hugged his arm, laying her head againt his shoulder as Ida released a soft sigh.

Valentin was as effusive as ever when they arrived, kissing Concetta on both cheeks and exclaiming over Ida’s beauty; he teased both Owen and James about stealing their women as he ushered the four of them to a table. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a bottle of wine and a plate of _antipasto_ before taking their orders.

“Tell us about your business, Concetta,” James asked once Valentin had vanished again.

“ _Per Pranzo_?” Concetta laid her napkin on her lap and took a sip of the excellent wine Valentin had poured her. He’d given her a warm wink as he did so, and it helped to soothe her nerves. “Our family has been in the restaurant business always, and when we had to sell Strano’s, we—”

“Strano’s?” James’s interjection was sharp. “Isn’t that the restaurant in Melbourne whose owner was arrested for having ties to the mafia?”

Concetta looked at Owen in surprise, and he gave her a small grimace. Apparently, he hadn’t shared her family story with his parents.

“ _Sì_ ,” she said slowly. “I am sorry, I thought you knew. Antonio Strano, the owner of that restaurant, is my grandfather.” At Owen’s parents’ raised eyebrows, she hurried on. “My brother and I had no involvement with his criminal activity. He had us sell Strano’s to pay for his defense, but then we decided to come away and start fresh somewhere new.”

She glanced at Owen, who laid a hand over hers on the tablecloth. Concetta raised her chin. “My grandfather is a bad man, but my brother and I were… game pieces to him. He used us as much as anyone. Now we are free.”

Surprisingly, Ida was nodding. “You are not to blame for another person’s actions, Concetta.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the tone was hard. “My mother abandoned her four children when I was only six years old, leaving my twelve-year-old sister to take her place. I grew up determined that I would never do the same to my family.”

“Ida, _mi dispiace_. I am so sorry that you went through that.” Concetta reached out to lay a hand on Ida’s arm.

“Thank you, dear,” Ida said, patting Concetta’s hand. “And I am sorry that you had to deal with your grandfather’s crimes, and what came afterward. The newspaper stories must have been difficult.”

“They were. I had a friend with the police who did his best to keep our names out of the papers, but we did not stay long after the restaurant was sold.” Concetta sat back in her seat, shaking her head. “We opened _Per Pranzo_ because the restaurant business was what we knew, but we tried to make it very different from Strano’s. And it is successful, because of Vincenzo and me.”

“As it should be, with those whaddayacallem, paneen?” James rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips exaggeratedly.

Concetta laughed. “ _Panini_ , yes, and we have meat pies as well. You will have to come back and try those another time.”

“How’s tomorrow sound? Our train leaves right around lunchtime.”

“ _Perfetto_! I will make up a basket for you to take with you,” Concetta beamed at him. “Come by on your way to the station.” Her mind was already planning what to pack—two or three of each type of meat pie, and perhaps she’d bake biscotti tonight so that they could have a sweet dessert.

“We’ll take you up on that, my dear.” James took a sip of his wine and looked around exaggeratedly for Valentin. “Now where is the rest of our dinner? Man does not live on sausage and cheese alone.”

Owen laughed, and squeezed Concetta’s hand. “I’m sure it’s coming, dad. Valentin knows what a bottomless pit you are.”

“That’s slander, that is,” James grumbled, but he was smiling. “I’ll have you know that I only ate the one sandwich for lunch.”

“That’s only because I wouldn’t give you mine, love,” Ida said, laughing at him.

“And right cruel it was, too,” he shot back. “Leaving me to starve like that.”

Concetta’s smile stretched wide across her face as they continued to banter. These three were wonderful together. She hoped that she and Owen would be like this together after nearly thirty years of marriage. Catching his eye, she met his smile with her own, letting all the love she felt for him shine from her eyes.

**November 1930**

“I think I need a cold shower,” Owen gasped against her hair one night as they stood together between the bathing sheds, his hand cupping her breast through her thin cotton dress.

The zing caused by his fingers toying with her nipple rippled through her body, and Concetta whimpered softly. She could feel his hardness against her belly, and she wanted him rather desperately. Their wedding was only a week away, and without a private place to consummate their love—Vincenzo had already begun moving into Owen’s flat, and he was there more often than Owen was, these days—their petting had become almost more frustrating than pleasurable, though that didn’t stop them from doing it.

“Or maybe a cold swim,” Owen was saying, his fingers still stroking her nipple and his hand on her hip pressing her against him. With a groan, he stepped back from her, his hands slipping away. “God, you’re beautiful, Concetta,” he said, his voice stroking over her skin and making her shudder.

She laughed softly. “I am just as frustrated as you are, Owen,” she said. Eyeing his broad shoulders, his chest heaving with his breaths, and the tented front of his trousers, she had a wicked idea. “And do you know what? A swim sounds delightful.”

Owen’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“You go swimming at night, do you not?” Concetta purred, her eyes on his.

“I do,” he confirmed, his eyebrows drawing down in confusion. “But I don’t have my suit.”

“There’s no one here,” Concetta said, sticking her head out between the sheds to look up and down the beach. On this Tuesday night, well after dark, the beach was nearly deserted. It was edging toward summer, so the air was warm, but it was late enough that most people in this area had headed off to bed in order to be fresh for their Wednesday workdays.

Owen turned his head to look at her. “Are you suggesting that we…”

“Go for a swim, yes.”

“Without our suits?”

Concetta shrugged. “Why not? No one will see us.” Her dark eyes dared him, and his smile grew.

“All right,” he said. “I have a key to a bathing shed where we can leave our things, if you like?”

“ _Bene_ ,” she said, “lead the way.”

He took her hand, pulling her down the beach to one of the bathing sheds, where he unlocked the door and gestured for her to proceed him inside. The shed was small; a row of hooks lined one side above a long wooden bench, and a shelf against the back wall held a stack of folded towels. There was only a little light coming in from small windows set high in the eaves on the side facing away from the ocean, but the moonlight was enough to see by.

“I rent the use of this place from its owner; he even provides the towels. Very convenient. That locker there is mine.” He pointed to a row of wooden-fronted lockers, each with a shiny padlock affixed to it.

“Why have we not been taking advantage of this place?” Concetta marveled aloud as she looked around, and Owen paused.

“Um,” he said with a small, disbelieving laugh, “I suppose it never occurred to me. It’s not very romantic.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked over at her, incredulous.

“Well, we are not using it that way tonight,” she laughed, “you promised me a swim.” She sauntered close to him, her eyes heavy-lidded. “But maybe another time, _caro_.” Owen smiled a mischievously down at her.

“Mmm, I can think of several uses for that bench there, though we would have to watch for the others who rent this place,” he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her mouth.

“I will remember that you have ideas,” she purred against his mouth before stepping back slightly. “Now, where shall I put my things?” Her hands lifted to the buttons down the front of her red dress, flicking open the first one and watching his eyes flare with desire. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“Here,” he brushed past her to open the locker, which was currently empty. “Uh,” he said, glancing around. One corner by the front wall was sectioned off with a  cloth curtain, and he smiled. “Aha!”

Pulling a towel from the stack on the shelf, he handed it to Concetta with a flourish. She took it, and he led her to the dressing corner and pulled the curtain shut around her.

“All right?”

“ _Sì_ ,” she said, fighting not to laugh at his gallantry. Silly man. She was planning to swim naked beside him—why should she need to change behind a curtain? But she shrugged and began undoing the buttons down the front of her dress. When she’d stripped to the skin, she folded her clothing carefully, then wrapped the towel around herself.

“Owen?” She called softly, “Are you ready?” She’d been listening to the rustling noises he’d made while undressing, and he’d stopped before she had.

“Yes,” he said.

She peeked around the curtain, one hand holding the towel around herself and the other clutching her stack of clothes and shoes. He reached to take her clothing from her and lay it on the shelf within his locker, then he shut the locker, leaving the padlock off.

“I don’t suppose anyone is likely to come in here so late at night, and anyway, I don’t have a pocket to pin the key to,” his smile invited her laugh, and she obliged. “Shall we?”

Concetta nodded, suddenly unable to speak. He had tied his towel around his waist, and she was awestruck by the width of his shoulders and the defined muscles in his chest and arms. He was taller and wider than either Jack or Paolo, and his pale skin was dusted with hair across his chest and freckles running over his shoulders and arms. Her mouth watered, and she had to swallow hard at the sight of the muscles flexing in his back as he turned to open the shed door and scan the beach outside.

“The coast is clear,” he said, looking back at her. “Shall we go together, or do you want me to go first?”

“Together,” Concetta managed, and she took the hand he held out to her. She was nervous, strangely enough. She wasn’t sure that this adventure would pick up where they’d stopped earlier, but she rather hoped it did. Owen stopped to close the door to the shed securely and set the lock; he stashed the key under a rock to one side of the stairs, and then they dashed down to the water’s edge.

Without looking at him, Concetta took a deep breath and let her towel fall to the sand just above the tide line, then dashed into the water until she was covered almost to her shoulders. She heard Owen’s gasp behind her, and then he was there beside her, his warm hands against her waist a contrast to the coolness of the water. Turning her to face him, he smiled.

“That was probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said. “A mermaid returning to the sea.”

Concetta laughed and lifted a hand to press against his cheek. “I will race you to the dock,” she said with a smile, and struck out strongly before he had a chance to reply. With a shout, he followed her, and he quickly caught up, pacing her on the ocean side as they swam together.

When they reached the dock, they were both laughing. Owen set his feet in the sand under the water and reached out to grasp one of Concetta’s hands to hold her in place.

“Where did you learn to swim like that?” He said, grinning.

“I grew up at the side of the ocean,” she replied, her smile brilliant. “I learned to swim almost as soon as I learned to walk.”

“You are magnificent,” he said, his admiration for her skill shining in his eyes.

“Mmm,” Concetta replied. She glanced around—there were still no other people on the beach, but even if there had been, they were hidden in the darkness under the dock. Licking her lips, she used the hand anchored in his to pull herself to him. He watched her as she came closer, and when she bumped her body up flush against him, his free hand went to her waist to hold her there.

“Concetta,” he said softly, and dipped his head to take her mouth with his.

He tasted of salt and sea and himself, his tongue warm against hers, and Concetta wound her arms around his neck; he pulled her close, his arms going around her, one hand slipping from her back to cup her buttock. She could feel him against her belly, already long and hard despite the cool water, and she pressed closer, lifting her legs to wind around his waist. Now his manhood was nestled between the folds of her sex, and she rolled her hips to stroke him warmly. He tightened an arm around her waist, lifting her up so that her breasts cleared the water; with a groan, he dipped his head to wrap his lips around her nipple. She gasped as the warmth of his mouth heated her chilled flesh, and she slid her fingers into his wet hair, holding him in place.

“Owen,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he suckled her. She gasped as he switched from one breast to another, his hands gripping her bottom strongly as she rocked her hips against him. Whimpering, she clutched at his hair, her mouth opening against his temple.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispered, raising his head to kiss her again; he let her slide down his body until she could once again feel his hard length across her mons. “We don’t have to,” Owen hurried to add, “if you’re not sure…” He looked up at her, his breath coming quickly, his hair slicked back, revealing the angles of his face; his eyes were warm on hers, and she leaned down to kiss him into silence.

“ _Bell’uomo,_ ” she murmured as her lips left his, “ _ti voglio dentro._ ” Holding his eyes, she slid one hand down his chest to catch his cock in her hand. She stroked him lightly, running her thumb over his crown just to hear him catch his breath. With a final light squeeze, she shifted to take him inside; he pressed on her hips to counter the buoyancy of the water as he slowly filled her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, feeling her body stretching to accommodate him; he filled her completely, long but not too thick for comfort, and she sighed and kissed him as she seated herself fully upon him.

“Is this all right?” he whispered against her lips, his eyes half-closed with pleasure and his hands on her hips holding her still.

“ _Sì,_ _caro,_ ” she replied, her words catching on a moan as he loosed her hips, letting the water carry her upward with the surge of the surf, then grasping her again to push her back down. He caught her mouth again, his tongue sliding in to mimic the slow motions of their bodies. Concetta wrapped her arms around him, pressing her breasts against his chest; her world shrank to the twin feelings of his tongue in her mouth and his cock moving inside her body.

She heard herself moan again, and as the tension in her body built, she added the motion of her hips to that of the waves. Before too long, she was pistoning her hips against him, chasing the orgasm that seemed just out of reach. With a whimper, she once again slid her hand down his chest to rest between their bodies, this time on her own flesh; she pressed and circled her fingers against her clitoris, her fingers brushing against his cock where it moved within her, until finally she felt the tension snap and she pushed her mouth against his to muffle her cries of release. A few more strokes and she felt Owen’s orgasm hit; he slammed her hips down upon his, holding himself deep inside her as his stomach muscles turned to stone and her hand, pressed between them, felt the shuddering of the muscles at his groin.

They remained joined for long moments afterward, holding tight to each other, their mouths open and panting as they continued to kiss, over and over.

“Concetta,” Owen murmured, “I love you so much.”

Concetta gasped. “Owen, _mio caro,_ I love you too,” she peppered his face with kisses, wrapping her arms around his neck once more.

“How did I get so lucky?” His smile was incredulous, and he caught her face between his hands, searching her eyes.

“ _Si meritano tutto quello che posso darvi_ ,” she replied, her own smile wobbling a little with emotion. “You deserve everything.” She traced his cheekbones with trembling fingers, and he stroked her face, cupping her jaw and nestling his thumb in the dent in her chin as he always did.

“ _Ti amo così tanto, il mio cuore,_ ” she murmured.

He covered her lips with his, kissing her deeply. When she shivered, he seemed to realize that they were still standing, bodies connected, in the water.

“Let’s get you back to the shed, love,” he said, kissing her again as he slid his body from hers. “Get you warmed up.”

She grinned up at him, her heart light. “I will race you,” she said, and heard him laugh as she struck out without waiting for him to reply.


	8. A New Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Here comes the bride..._

**November 1930**

On the day Concetta married Owen, the weather was dismal. It rained heavily, and the sanctuary of the church was cold and dark, its only illumination coming from candles at the altar. The service itself was short, but the priest—a newly ordained young man who was performing his first marriage—lost his place in the devotional halfway through. He got himself back on track, but Concetta and Owen had to avoid each other’s eyes for a long time, lest they burst into unseemly giggles.

Owen’s hand shook as he held her ring—a gold band etched with flowers—and he fumbled and nearly dropped it; only Concetta’s quick catch kept it from hitting the floor to roll away. Her hands were steady, but she stammered her vows in her concentration on the physical act of sliding the smooth gold band he’d chosen onto his finger. Because of the rain, the supper they’d planned to hold in the courtyard of the church had to be moved into the basement meeting space, which was dark and damp. Two of the church ladies who’d volunteered to make the dinner had quarreled the night before, so they spent the day ostentatiously not speaking to each other, using poor Vincenzo as a middleman.

It was absolutely perfect.

Concetta had found a second-hand gown in a warm ivory that she’d altered to fit; its square neckline and fitted bodice flattered her curves, and she felt beautiful in it. The warmth in Owen’s eyes as she proceeded down the aisle had been palpable, and the sighs of the women in the congregation as she passed told her that her own expression must have been incandescent with joy. Owen was stunningly handsome in his gray suit, at least to her, and he’d pinned a red rose to his lapel. She had trouble taking her eyes off of him.

Their laughing glances during the ceremony itself were delightful, and when his ring had shifted over her knuckle, she felt a welling up of tears; his eyes were similarly wet when she slid the ring onto his finger. At the wedding supper, neither of them ate much—they were too busy moving around the room hand in hand to speak to their guests. Only one of those conversations was memorable for Concetta—the one with Ida and James.

As James unselfconsciously hugged Owen, Ida took both of Concetta’s hands. With tears in her eyes, she softly said, “Welcome to our family.” Concetta’s chin quivered, and she teared up again.

Owen’s father then turned to hug her; cupping her face, he said “I always wanted a daughter.” That tipped the tears over, and she laughed at his stricken expression even as she cried. Ida stepped closer to wipe Concetta’s eyes with a handkerchief as she would have done for a child, despite the fact that Concetta was several inches taller than Ida was.

“You make our son happy, Concetta,” Ida whispered. “And that is everything we ever wanted for him.” Concetta’s return smile was watery but brilliant, and she leaned in to kiss Ida on each cheek.

“ _Grazie, mamma_ ,” she murmured in Ida’s ear. “Thank you for making Owen the man he is, and for trusting me with him.” Ida squeezed Concetta’s hands, smiling through her own tears.

For Concetta, the rest of the afternoon’s conversations were a blur—she could focus only on the feeling of Owen’s hand holding hers and the knowledge that he would be coming home with her for the first time that evening. After they’d made love in the surf, it had been even harder to keep their hands off each other; they’d only managed one other lovemaking session (inside the bathing shed this time, both of them listening carefully in case one of the other renters decided that night bathing was the thing to do), and she could not wait to have him in her bed. By the way that Owen kept at least one hand touching her all afternoon—taking her hand, grasping her waist, running a palm down her arm—she thought perhaps he felt the same.

Eventually, the rain stopped and they made the walk back to _Per Pranzo_ , congregation in tow, the celebration continuing down the street as faces looked out of the windows of the businesses along the way to smile at their happiness. They stopped on the front step of the restaurant, unlocking the door and then sharing a kiss that set the crowd to cheering. With a grin, Owen scooped her up into his arms to carry her over the threshold of the building that was their new home. He put her down inside, and with a wave that was echoed by the people outside, including Owen’s parents and Vincenzo, who would spend his first night in Owen’s flat, they locked the door and rushed, laughing, to the back of the building.

Concetta caught up her long skirt with one hand and Owen’s hand in the other, tugging him up the stairs. He’d been in their flat before, for dinner and card games in the parlor, but tonight she pulled him past the doors to the parlor and kitchen and around the corner to her—now their—bedroom. Hand on the doorknob, she turned to look up at him, suddenly nervous. Owen, seeming to understand, stepped close and kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding between her lips to taste her.

“I love you, Mrs Merrick,” he said softly when he broke away.

“ _Ti amo, marito mio_ ,” she responded with a small smile, her nervousness melting away. “Welcome home,” she whispered, and pushed open the door to allow him in.

Owen caught her around the waist, dipping his head to kiss her again and turning with her to enter the room. Concetta returned his kisses, her desire growing. She’d splurged on a lovely negligee that she’d intended to change into, but she didn’t think she wanted to take the time just now. _Perhaps tomorrow night_ , she thought as she raised her arms to loop around his neck and his hand found her breast.

Breathing heavily, she broke the kiss and stepped back, her hands pushing his jacket down his shoulders before catching it and moving to lay it across the chair that sat in front of the room’s tall windows. Owen followed her, and she felt his hands on the buttons that ran down the back of her wedding dress. She’d had to have one of her friends at the church help her into the gown before the ceremony, and she loved the idea of Owen being the one to help her out of it. As he worked on the buttons, his mouth dropped to her neck, and she arched to give him better access. She reached one hand back to his hip, pulling him closer, and she felt his moan against her skin as a vibration that rippled all the way down her body.

When her buttons were undone, she turned to face him, pressing herself against him and covering his mouth with her own. Her hands went to his tie as his slid inside her dress to cup her buttocks.

“Concetta,” he groaned as her fingers began to undo his buttons.

“I want you, Owen,” she whispered, glancing down to see that she’d finished unbuttoning his waistcoat. She smoothed her hands up his shirt front, feeling the warmth of his body and the hardness of his muscles.

“And I always want you, Concetta _mia_ ,” Owen said, his breath catching as she found his nipples through the cotton of his shirt. He pulled his hands from inside her dress and caught her hands in his, meeting her eyes. “But I want to take it slowly today. Our first time making love as husband and wife should be special.”

Concetta looked up at him, her breath coming quickly. Rolling her lips together, she nodded.

“All right,” she said, and stepped back from him. “Then wait here. I will get ready.” She moved around him, trailing her fingers through his as he turned with her, and headed out the door to the bathroom, where her negligee waited.

After changing, she came back down the hall, standing quietly for a moment at the closed bedroom door. The butterflies in her stomach had returned. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous—perhaps it was because Owen was now her husband? Her thoughts flashed to her wedding night with Paolo, a man she’d known barely a week and who’d spoken no more than ten words to her in that time. He’d been rough with her when he took her virginity, and he hadn’t seemed to mind that she’d cried. It had taken him less than a minute to spend himself inside her body, then he’d rolled over and gone to sleep, leaving her stunned and bleeding. She’d crept out of the bed once his snores had begun, retreating to the washroom to clean herself up and weep over what might have been.

But Owen would not be that kind of husband, even though the title gave him a power over her that he hadn’t had before. She knew that, not just because they’d been intimate before, but because she knew the man he was. His heart was generous and he loved her; he would never abuse her the way that Paolo had. Her head and heart were certain of it; it was only her stomach that was still unsure. Telling her stomach to calm itself, she turned the knob and moved into the room.

Owen lay in the bed, and his fingers, which had been drumming against the deep green coverlet, stopped when he saw her. His expression was stunned as he looked her over in her nighttime finery—the heavy red silk of her robe was open in the front, exposing the thin ivory silk and darker crocheted lace of her negligee, and her unbound hair twisted down one side of her neck to curl around her breast. Concetta paused to look at him—against the iron lacework of her headboard, his broad chest and shoulders looked even more masculine than she’d expected. His dark red hair was slightly mussed from where she’d threaded her fingers into it earlier, and his gray eyes were wide.

Concetta smiled and crossed over to the wardrobe, where she opened the door and shrugged out of her robe. In the mirror mounted inside, she watched Owen’s reaction—his jaw dropped slightly as he took in the lace that made up most of the gown’s back, dipping down just past the top curve of her buttocks; her smile widened as she turned around to show him the front, where the lace traveled from the shoulder straps down her front almost to her belly in a wide U. Her nipples, dark against the silk, pebbled under his gaze, and she saw his eyes sweep down to where the dark hair of her mons was a shadow against her skin. The nightgown was long, with a slit from the floor to just above her knees, allowing her legs to flash with each step.

As she moved back toward the bed, Owen scrambled to sit up, keeping her in sight.

“Oh, my…” he murmured as she moved toward him, his hands sliding to cover his lap.

Concetta’s smirk became a grin. She moved to stand beside him, her strides slowing and smoothing; she loved the way that he watched her, his heart and so much heat in his eyes. Owen turned to face her, his legs dangling off the side of the bed. He kept the cover over his groin—she imagined that he didn’t want to worry her with his arousal. Neither of their two sexual encounters before marriage had allowed for them to see each other completely nude, and suddenly, she wanted to see him. All of him.

Stepping forward, she stood between his legs and laid her hands on his chest; his came up to rest on her hips, his fingers stroking the soft silk along with her skin. She leaned in to kiss him, and he met her halfway, his kiss fiery with desire. His arms folded around her, pulling her closer to his chest, and she stroked downward to pull the coverlet away, leaving only the thin silk of her gown between them.

Pulling away slightly, she looked down his body, admiring his muscular chest with its dusting of dark red hair and his flat belly. His cock stood straight between his thighs, the hair at its base a shade darker than the bright mop on his head; its skin was darker than the rest of him too. She reached for it, rubbing her thumb over the warm, smooth head.

“You are beautiful, my husband,” she said softly, bringing her eyes back to his.

“You take my breath away, wife,” he said, his voice rumbling low in his chest. His hands at her waist began to bunch and gather the fabric of her negligee. “But you are currently wearing far too much.”

With a grin, Concetta raised her hands to his shoulders as he pulled the fabric of her gown up, then raised her arms above her head, her eyes on his. He growled softly as he pulled the thing over her head and tossed it aside, devouring her with his eyes before tugging her into bed.

She came willingly, crawling under the covers before rising to lean over him, her hair brushing his chest. His hand stroked up her side to cup one breast, his thumb rubbing her hardening nipple. Concetta slid her hand over his chest as well, tracing the V of his chest hair where it spread across the tops of his pectoral muscles and down to where it trailed in a thin line to his groin.

“So beautiful,” Owen breathed as he looked at her body. He reached his head up to kiss her again, his tongue sliding sweetly into her mouth. Concetta’s hand, resting on his stomach, slid downward to grasp his hard length, and he groaned his approval.

After a few moments of stroking, however, he rolled her beneath him, moving to take one of her nipples into his mouth. His own hand slid down her body to slip between her legs, finding her clitoris and beginning to dance his fingers around it. She’d shown him this in the bathing hut, how to touch her and test for the moisture that would signal her readiness. Owen was less experienced than she was, but he had obviously taken the lesson to heart because whatever he was doing took her breath away.

“Owen,” she moaned as he slid a finger inside her body. He switched breasts, his tongue and teeth tormenting her other nipple to hardness; she glanced down her body to see her breast shining with the wetness from his mouth, her nipples elongated with her pleasure. His hand moving between her legs made her hips pulse as her arousal grew; she slid her fingers over his shoulders, pushing them into his hair as she arched into his touch.

“Owen,” she said again, tugging lightly at his hair, “now… please, _amore_ …” He raised his head from her breasts, and his reddened lips and slightly glazed gray eyes sent a bolt of arousal through her body; his fingers slipped from her clitoris to dip inside her body, and she arched with a cry.

“ _Mio caro, ho bisogno di te così male_ ,” she burst out, her hands in his hair pulling harder, bringing his mouth up to hers. “ _Vieni dentro, il mio amore_ …” she murmured, “come inside me, please Owen…”

“Concetta,” Owen whispered, and he stretched up to kiss her. Moving quickly, he positioned himself over her body, one hand dropping to guide himself inside her.

They both let out a sigh as Owen sank deep into her body; to Concetta, even though they had been intimate before, this joining felt… more, somehow. More important, more profound, more extraordinary than she expected, and she felt tears well in her eyes at the sensation. She wrapped her arms around Owen’s shoulders and kissed him as he began to move within her, his body sliding perfectly against her own.

“Owen,” she murmured against his lips as her tension spiraled up; she bent her knees, draping her legs around his waist. “ _Ti amo tanto, amore mio…_ I love you so much…”

“I love you,” Owen gasped, his hips pumping against her and increasing the delicious friction between them. “My Concetta, my wife, I love you so muh-uuhhhh!” On the last syllable, his body shuddered; he came, his arms clenching around her as he continued to piston within her.

His hard embrace combined with the heat of his release inside her pushed Concetta into climax, his name escaping her in a wail. Her legs contracted, pressing her heels hard into his thighs, and she fisted her hand in his hair as her orgasm shook her body.

When Concetta recovered her senses, she realized that she was wrapped around Owen like a vine; he lay on top of her, breathing heavily, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His weight felt glorious, as if she was right where she should be. She stroked his hair and his back, loving the fact that they could stay like this all night if they chose to—they were married, and they never needed to spend the night separately again. Concetta felt a silly smile stretch her lips, and she turned her head to press a kiss to his temple. Owen lifted his head to kiss her back, his eyes heavy and his smile soft.

“Wife in name, now wife in truth,” he said quietly.

“Hello, husband,” she replied, and her smile grew brilliant. This was a husband who suited her very well indeed.


	9. A New Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our newly married couple begin their lives together.

**February 1931**

After the wedding, the happy couple’s days quickly fell into a rhythm; Concetta would rise early and go downstairs to begin the day’s baking and to greet Vincenzo when he arrived. She’d wake Owen with kisses when it was time for him to get ready for work, and after he pulled her into bed for a laughing lovemaking session for the third time, she began waking him early—she didn’t want him to have to rush to work or to get in trouble for being late.

She spent her days smiling, happy with her life and her love. Business began to drop off some as the country’s economic crisis worsened, but she and Vincenzo worked out how to drop their prices, using less-expensive ingredients but keeping the flavors true. Times were tight, but they managed. When Vincenzo moved back in to the apartment over the restaurant, the finances became easier without the payment for Owen’s flat, though the three of them had to learn how to live together.

Vincenzo had met someone while he was living on his own at Owen’s flat—a lovely Italian girl named Eleonora, whose parents owned a shoe store on the same street. He had come to Concetta when he realized that he was attracted to this girl, whom he saw daily as she opened the shop. Concetta had reassured him that it would be all right for him to take Eleonora out, that Mariana would not have wanted him to be alone forever. After a time, he had invited Eleonora to have dinner with him, and by the time he moved out of the flat, she was a fixture in his life.

In February, Owen came home to find Concetta sitting at the table set just for the two of them, and there was a box beside his plate.

“Hello, darling,” he said, loosening his tie. His eyebrows drew together over his nose in confusion. “Is Vincenzo out tonight?”

“Yes, he is having dinner with Eleonora’s family,” she replied. She toyed with her fingers in her lap. “I thought this would be a good time for me to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?” Owen sat in the chair beside her, laying his hand over her twisting fingers. “Is everything all right?”

“Open that package, and then you tell me,” she replied, taking a shaky breath and then drawing her lower lip between her teeth.

With a concerned look, Owen lifted the package. It was light for its size, and he lifted the lid carefully. Inside was a stuffed rabbit stitched out of scraps he recognized from Concetta’s sewing basket. Its button eyes were shiny black, and it was made up of many colors and textures of fabric. He looked at it, then looked up at Concetta with a small shake of his head.

“I… I don’t understand?” He held the rabbit in his hands, stroking the satiny fabric of its inner ears.

“It is for our baby,” she said simply, a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth.

“Our…” Owen’s mouth dropped open. “We’re having a baby?”

Concetta nodded. “Is it all right, Owen?” Her eyes were huge—they’d talked about a family, of course, but neither had expected that family to start so soon. She hoped that he would be happy at this news, but one never knew.

“All right?” Owen surged to his feet, rounding the table to drop to his knees in front of his wife. “This is… This is _magnificent_.” He looked up at Concetta, his eyes welling with tears, as he looped an arm around her waist and brought a hand up to cup her cheek. “A baby,” he whispered, his smile bright.

Concetta felt her smile grow, and she laughed a little wetly, because her own eyes were welling with tears.

“ _Un bambino,_ ” she whispered back, nodding, “ _un pezzo di entrambi, il mio amore._ ” She could barely wait to see their son or daughter, to see just who this little piece of the two of them would be.

Owen caught her close and rose to his feet, spinning her around. “A baby!” he shouted, as she squealed, laughing. “We’re having a baby!” He stopped spinning and lowered her to her feet, his hands cupping her face. “We’re having a baby,” he whispered wonderingly before covering her mouth with his. When he raised his head, it was only to scoop her up and carry her, laughing, to their bed, where he stripped her naked and worshipped every inch of her with his mouth. He paid special attention to her belly, kissing it and whispering messages to the child growing inside. When he finally entered her body, he did so gently, the pace of his loving staying slow and easy as he murmured his love for her, their baby, and their life into her ear.

By the time Vincenzo arrived home, they were back in the kitchen, dressed in their robes and eating the now-cold lasagna she’d prepared. Vincenzo smiled as he tried to pass the kitchen quietly, but Owen caught his eye. He straightened from where he’d been leaning close to Concetta, but left his hand covering hers.

“Vincenzo!” He beckoned to his brother-in-law to join them. “Are you hungry?”

“No, _grazie_ , I’m fine.”

“Did you have a nice evening?” Concetta examined Vincenzo’s face. Her brother was still more serious than he had been before Mariana, but he had opened up again since he met Eleonora.

“ _Sì_ , Eleonora’s mama is a good cook.” He smiled as he spoke, and it was a real smile, Concetta thought, one that reached his eyes.

“Things are getting serious between you two,” Concetta remarked casually. “I am glad. She is a nice girl.”

Vincenzo nodded. “I think I will ask her to marry me, ’Cetta,” he said softly, not meeting his sister’s eyes. “I love her.”

“Oh, Vincenzo!” Concetta stood and embraced her brother. “That is wonderful news!” Vincenzo hugged her back, a little desperately. Concetta knew how frightening it could be to let yourself love again after losing someone. From what she’d seen of Eleonora, she rather thought that the girl thought Vincenzo hung the moon, though she also didn’t seem like a pushover. Eleonora was good for her brother.

“We have good news as well,” Owen spoke up after the siblings broke apart, smiling happily at each other.

“What is it?” Vincenzo met his brother-in-law’s eyes as Concetta moved to stand beside Owen.

“We are going to have a baby,” Concetta replied, her smile wide.

Vincenzo’s response was a stream of Italian too fast to truly comprehend, but his joyful shout and his move to take his sister back into a hug spoke for themselves. Keeping an arm around Concetta, he shook Owen’s hand, then pulled him up and into a hug of his own.

“I will be an uncle!” He said, beaming. “This is wonderful news!”

“It is going to get a little crowded in here, with a new baby and maybe a new wife,” Concetta laughed. “And since babies follow wives…”

Vincenzo grinned and pressed a kiss to her temple. “There is time yet before we are overcrowded, I am sure. By the time we really need more space, it will be easier to afford it.”

“And until then, we’ll just be _accogliente_ ,” Concetta said, “cozy.”

“Perhaps we can convert the parlor into a bedroom,” Owen said. “We can always use the restaurant space in the evenings, too.”

Concetta wrapped her arms around him and laid a smacking kiss on his cheek. “My husband is brilliant! You are right—we have plenty of room.”

With a final squeeze, Vincenzo excused himself, and Concetta and Owen worked together to clean up the kitchen before heading to their own bed to celebrate their new family again.

**March 1931**

Concetta stood in the kitchen of the apartment, stirring an enormous pot of marinara sauce that she planned to preserve. Owen sat with her, the restaurant’s books open on the kitchen table as he reviewed them.

“We’re still making a profit,” he remarked quietly. “Not a large one, but a profit,” he looked up to meet Concetta’s eyes and grinned.

“It is our cooking,” Concetta said with a smile. “My grandfather was not a good man, but he was a good cook.”

Antonio Strano had recently been killed during a fight that had broken out at the prison; no one knew whether the knife he’d taken to the stomach had been meant for him, but it stood to reason. The _Camorra_ would thrive, even without its _padrino_ , and like most gangs, leadership passed to the strongest—or at least the most ruthless—member. At least now, she and Vincenzo were out of it.

Owen stood to come and wrap his arms around her. She loved him for that. Concetta had no longer looked up to her grandfather as a role model, the way she had when she first came to Australia, but he was her grandfather, and his death had been a blow. She turned her head to kiss her husband to let him know that the mention of the old man had not made her sad. He kissed her back, a wordless communication of love that they both understood.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Concetta smiled. He’d shifted his hands so that they rested on her stomach. She barely had a bump yet, but Owen was fascinated by it. He also loved the changes pregnancy was making to her breasts, but he was less likely to touch those until they were sure of their privacy.

“Not yet, but in a little while, I will need you to help me clean and refill this pot to seal the jars.”

“It’s a deal.” He kissed her cheek, then opened his mouth to accept the spoonful of sauce she fed him. He gave a theatrical groan at his pleasure at the flavors, then gave her another squeeze and let her go. Concetta began to hum as she ladled sauce into sterilized glass jars.

Just as she filled the last jar with rich red sauce, she heard Vincenzo and Eleonora coming up the stairs. Vincenzo’s lady had become a regular visitor in their home, and Concetta liked her very much. Eleonora was a small woman, several inches shorter than Vincenzo. She had lovely curves and a tiny waist, blonde-streaked brown hair and sparkling green eyes. Although she was young, only twenty, she seemed to have a level head, and she handled Vincenzo’s occasional flares of temper with humor.

The couple rounded the corner into the kitchen, holding hands and laughing quietly together. They were an attractive couple, Concetta thought, smiling at them.

“Vincenzo, Eleonora, hello! I was just about to start dinner—will you stay?”

“ _Sì_ , ’Cetta, we will stay,” Vincenzo said, and exchanged a glance with Eleonora. “But we have something to tell you first.”

Concetta set down the lid she’d just lifted and turned to face them, wiping her hands on her apron. Owen turned in his chair to see them both.

“What is it, _fratello mio_?” Concetta thought she knew, but she wanted them to have the excitement of saying it.

“We’re getting married!” Eleonora’s voice was excited, its normally smooth tone raising at the end of the statement.

“Congratulations!” Concetta clasped her hands together before rounding the table to embrace them both. “ _Benvenuto nella nostra famiglia_ , Eleonora!” Concetta exclaimed, kissing her soon-to-be sister-in-law on both cheeks.

Owen had risen from the table at the news and was shaking Vincenzo’s hand and congratulating him. Concetta took both of Eleonora’s hands in hers.

“Thank you,” Concetta said softly.

“What for?” Eleonora’s eyes were confused. “I love Vincenzo. I am the fortunate one.”

“He is a good man,” Concetta agreed. “But my brother has also been a very sad man in the last eighteen months. Since meeting you, he has found his happiness again.”

“That has been my distinct pleasure,” Eleonora replied, squeezing Concetta’s hands.

Owen moved over to press a kiss to Eleonora’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, little sister,” he said softly.

Letting Eleonora’s hands go, Concetta moved to embrace Vincenzo. “I am so happy for you,” she whispered into his ear.

“She loves me, ’Cetta,” he said wonderingly.

“Of course she does,” Concetta placed a hand on his cheek. “Why would she not?” She smiled warmly at him. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she moved back to her canning. The men seated themselves at the table and Eleonora came to help her wipe the tops of the jars and place lids on them.

“This is wonderful news,” Owen said to Vincenzo. “Perhaps we should consider converting the parlor before the wedding?”

“Converting the parlor?” Eleonora turned a confused look on Concetta.

“Owen thought that we could convert the parlor into a bedroom for you and Vincenzo, since we rarely gather there, and we can use the restaurant if we need more room,” Concetta explained. “It would give us some distance from each other.”

“It really only needs a couple of doors, off the hallway and into the kitchen,” Vincenzo said. “And it would mean that Concetta and Owen could use my old room as a nursery.”

“And it would be a nursery big enough for any other children who came along,” Concetta said, nudging Eleonora gently, and smiling as she blushed.

“Have you two set a date?” Owen replied.

“We have only just told Eleonora’s parents, but they thought perhaps early June?” Vincenzo shot a look at his fiancée, and she nodded.

“Owen, it is time to wash and fill the pot,” Concetta said, twisting a lid onto the last jar.

Owen stood and lifted the large stock pot, taking it over to the sink. As he scrubbed and filled it, Concetta leaned over to Eleonora.

“I like this part of pregnancy. Owen will not let me lift anything too heavy, so he gets to wash the pot,” her eyes twinkled at the look he shot her over his shoulder.

“Are you excited about the baby?” Eleonora’s question was quiet.

“Over the moon,” Concetta said, resting her hand on her belly. “It is a little frightening, not knowing what to expect, but I cannot wait to bring this little person into the world.”

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

Concetta shook her head. “I do not think it matters, really. I just hope that he or she is healthy.”

“And that the delivery is easy,” Owen put in, setting the filled pot on the stove to boil. When it did, Concetta would push a dish towel down into the pot of water using a long-handled spoon, then place the jars on top of it to seal in the heat.

“My mother has acted as a midwife,” Eleonora put in shyly, “and I’ve helped a little. I’m no expert,” she rushed to add at the surprised faces that turned to her, “but I know a little of what to do.”

“That is a weight off, Eleonora,” Owen said reseating himself at the table and gazing at her with serious eyes. “The midwife we’ve spoken with lives far enough away that it’ll take her a while to get here, and Concetta doesn’t want to go to a hospital.”

“Well, I can help in a pinch, and my mother’s not far if we should need her,” Eleonora said stoutly. “We’ll get you through it, Concetta.”

Vincenzo grinned proudly at her. “Isn’t she amazing?” He slung an arm around her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her temple, his ingenuous statement making the other three laugh.

**April through June 1931**

Concetta felt the baby move for the first time in early April, just a flutter within her belly, like butterfly wings. Owen felt it the first time in May, and the experience led to a wonderfully exhausting demonstration of his love for his wife. By the time Concetta’s pregnancy was at the seven-month mark, the little one seemed to be turning somersaults on a regular basis, often at night. When she wept with tiredness, Owen would tenderly tuck pillows around her, then spoon up behind her and stroke her to release, often foregoing his own when she dropped off.

Concetta had been amazed at her own sexual appetite, really. She’d assumed that pregnancy would mean that she’d desire her husband less, but that wasn’t the case—in fact, there were times when she felt that she might die of arousal, and Owen was happy to help her reach orgasm. As her belly had grown, they experimented with new positions for pleasure, finding several that they agreed were worth continuing to use even after the baby came. The first time he’d pulled her to her hands and knees and entered her from behind, she’d gasped—she’d felt him deeper than ever before, and the sensation triggered an orgasm even before he began to move. When he’d found his release, it had pushed her into another, and the two of them had collapsed together, entwined.

In May, Concetta found reasons to be thankful for her church community again: First, a member of the congregation had offered them a baby cot, which they set up on one end of the nursery with a small dresser; another had given them a carved wooden cradle that would fit nicely in the corner of Owen and Concetta’s room so that the baby could be close for the first few months. And a third had offered Vincenzo and Eleonora a week’s use of a nearby rental flat he owned as a honeymoon spot—they couldn’t afford to go away, and they’d still be needed to help run the restaurant, but a week on their own was a very welcome gift. Concetta hoped that the time away offered her brother and his bride some time to get to know each other as husband and wife before they moved back into the family flat.

By June, Owen and Vincenzo had fitted a french door in the parlor’s main doorway and replaced the swinging door into the kitchen with one that latched. They’d also cut a new doorway from the kitchen into the room that would be the nursery, for easy access. In the kitchen, they repositioned the heavy wooden pantry cabinet across the door into the front room to make space for a slightly larger table and a pretty wooden high chair Concetta found at her favorite second-hand shop; the change had the added benefit of giving the newlyweds another measure of privacy. Vincenzo and Owen had moved Vincenzo’s bedroom furniture into the newly enclosed room, and Concetta had them leave the parlor chairs in a small seating area at one end. The front room’s windows had been fitted out with new curtains that Eleonora made, and its sofa fit perfectly on one end of the nursery.

After Vincenzo and Eleonora’s wedding, which was held in the same church where Concetta and Owen married (and was officiated by the same priest, who had thankfully become more adept at the ceremony), the newlyweds decamped to their lovers’ hideaway. Owen and Concetta were surprised by how much they missed the younger couple’s company, although they appreciated the opportunity to explore the pleasurable possibilities of the other rooms of the flat as they had during their own honeymoon—at least as far as Concetta’s growing belly would allow.

Over the week of their honeymoon, the newlyweds came to the restaurant every day to work—Eleonora had begun assisting her fiancé and Concetta in both the kitchen and the dining area in the weeks leading up to the wedding. By the time the two of them moved back into the flat, it was as if Eleonora had always been there, with her cheerful smile and willingness to step in wherever help was needed.

Concetta found it a welcome change to have someone else to help with serving the customers, especially as her pregnancy advanced. All three of her family members worked hard to make sure that she got the rest she needed, though.

“Concetta, come sit with me while I have lunch,” Owen would say, taking her hand and drawing her into the chair beside him. He rarely sat at the counter anymore—she knew that he wanted her to rest her back a little.

“Concetta, why don’t you fold the clean napkins while I serve for a while?” Eleonora would say, gesturing to the kitchen, where Concetta could sit at the prep counter and work.

Vincenzo, for his part, had quietly brought in a stool with a back support for her to use at the counter—he hadn’t said a word, just given her a look with his eyebrows raised. She had to admit, it helped. Being on her feet all day got harder and harder as her belly got larger and larger, and when she could sit at the counter and pour coffee and chat for a while, she was less tired at the end of the day.

Concetta found it miraculous that a child was growing within her body, and most of the time she was happy to experience pregnancy. But by the end of June, when her stomach was huge and she felt bloated and her back and hips hurt almost all the time, she could admit that she was counting the days until the baby came as much for her own comfort as for the chance to meet him or her. It wouldn’t be long now—the baby was due at the beginning of August, and Concetta couldn’t wait.


	10. A New Addition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Concetta and Owen's next adventure.

**July 1931**

Concetta kissed Owen the way she did every morning as she rolled out of bed before dawn to make the day’s bread.

“Mmph?” he said, his eyes opening sleepily.

“Go back to sleep, _tesoro_ _mio,_ ” she whispered. “It is only time to make the bread.”

“Wait, I’ll come with you,” he said, struggling to sit up.

Concetta shook her head. Since her belly had begun to show, both Owen and Vincenzo had become terribly protective. Owen worried particularly about the staircase from the restaurant to the apartment, which was very steep. She smiled softly as she stroked his hair.

“You would only be in the way, Owen,” she replied. “Stay here, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“But the stairs,” he said sleepily.

“I promise that I will be very careful on the stairs, both ways,” she said.

“I’d feel better if I just…”

He really was adorable, Concetta thought. His sleepy eyes paired with his forehead wrinkled with concern tugged at her heart. She wondered, sometimes, what she had done to deserve this wonderful man, this wonderful life.

“I will be fine,” she said firmly. “Go back to sleep, and when I am finished, I will come join you.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips. “And you will need your rest to keep up.” He smiled, reaching up to cup the back of her head and bring her lips to his for a deep, intimate kiss.

“All right,” he whispered as he let her go. “Love you.”

“ _Ti amo, marito mio,_ ” she said as she pulled away. She straightened, stretching her back. This baby was getting bigger and bigger—her belly felt enormous! Her doctor had estimated her due date in August, and it couldn’t come too soon. Miracle or not, she was tired of her back aching and her feet swelling if she stood too long. And she was eager to meet her child, a little piece of herself and Owen.

Concetta hummed as she dressed to go downstairs, her mood light. She moved quietly past Vincenzo and Eleonora’s room as she took the first steps down the dim stairwell. She didn’t even see the scarf that had fallen from Eleonora’s coat until it moved under her foot; she let out a short scream as she lurched backward, trying to regain her balance as she scrabbled to catch the banister, her fingers missing as her arm flailed. Her back hit the treads of the stairs and she slid downward, her left leg tucked awkwardly beneath her and her head banging the steps as she went. She came to a stop at the bottom, wedged against the wall beside the door into the kitchen; her head hit the wall and there was only darkness.

**********

Concetta regained consciousness slowly, bits of sensation filtering through her mind. She was being held close to Owen—she recognized his scent—and she had the sensation of motion, though he was not moving. She tried to open her eyes, moaning with the effort.

“Concetta?” Owen’s voice was tight, his tone urgent. “Concetta, love, don’t worry. We’re going to get you to a doctor.”

“Wha…” Concetta tried to ask what had happened, but her tongue seemed to be too big for her mouth. For some reason, she couldn’t get her eyes to focus. “Ohh…”

“You’re going to be all right, darling,” Owen assured her, his mouth near her forehead, his arms holding her close. “You fell down the stairs, but nothing seems to be broken.”

“Ba-bee…” she croaked, her hands moving to her belly.

“We don’t think anything is wrong with the baby,” her husband soothed, “but that’s what the doctor’s going to check.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she closed her eyes. “Stay awake now, Concetta, stay with me,” he said. “Open those beautiful eyes.”

“Tired,” she breathed, fighting to open her eyes as he asked.

“I know, darling, but you need to stay awake. We’re almost there.”

True to his word, only a minute or two later, the car they were riding in—a taxi, she thought fuzzily, so expensive—came to a stop. Owen climbed out, running with her in his arms toward two white-aproned nurses who were coming to meet him.

“My wife fell down a flight of stairs,” he said, his voice anguished. “She’s eight months pregnant. I think she hit her head.”

“Did she lose consciousness?” One of the nurses asked, her voice calm and authoritative.

Owen must have nodded—Concetta didn’t hear his reply, and somehow her eyes were closed again.

“How long was she unconscious?”

“I’m not sure—a few minutes?” he said. “We heard her cry out, and ran to help, but we were sleeping, so… I don’t know, exactly.” Concetta could hear the worry in his voice, and she raised a hand to pat him weakly on the chest.

“She can hear us, that’s good,” the calm-voiced nurse said. “Please, bring her in here.”

Concetta felt herself being lowered to a bed, and Owen’s warm arms letting her go. She made a small noise.

“I’m still here, love,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Sir, you need to step back so that we can examine her,” the nurse said.

“I won’t go far, Concetta,” Owen said, and she felt his fingers slipping away.

The hands that touched her next were competent and brisk as they stripped her, turned her this way and that, and redressed her in a loose cotton gown that was soft from many washings. She whimpered as the hands pressed against the back of her head and tended to the scrapes on her knees and her back. When they lifted her eyelids to check her pupils, she moaned—the lights were so bright.

“Yes, I know that hurts,” the nurse crooned.

Next, the hands moved to her belly, pressing gently against where her child lay strangely quiet. Concetta raised her hands to her stomach too. A cool circle of metal pressed against her stomach, first in one spot, then another, and she heard the nurse sigh with relief.

“I hear a heartbeat,” she said softly, and Concetta let out a small sob. She thought she heard Owen take a ragged breath somewhere close by, and she reached a hand out in his direction. He grasped it, bringing it to his lips.

The moment of relief was so strong that when the first cramp came, Concetta was caught by surprise, her hand spasming against Owen’s and a cry escaping her lips. The nurse pressed her hands against Concetta’s belly.

“When did you say she’s due?”

“Not for another three weeks,” Owen responded.

“Well, she may deliver sooner than expected,” the nurse’s voice was matter-of-fact.

“…What?” Owen’s voice was incredulous.

“Let’s get her comfortable,” the nurse went on. “The contractions may stop on their own.” She pulled a blanket up over Concetta’s legs and belly. “I’m going to go create a chart for her. If she continues to cramp, check the time and let me know. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Owen?” Concetta’s voice was small.

“Hey there,” he whispered, and she felt his hand stroking her hair. “I knew that you were ready to meet our little one, but this seems a little extreme, don’t you think?” His voice was soft, and she could hear the fear in it.

“…Love you,” she managed softly, trying to smile at his joke.

“I love you, Concetta, so much.” His voice was rough and he kissed her temple, then rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, his hand cupping her cheek and his thumb nestling into the cleft of her chin.

“Never,” she tried to say, but the word turned into a moan as her abdomen cramped again. Owen stroked her hair and whispered soothing words as she fought through the pain. When it released her, she breathed deeply at the reprieve. As she rested after the cramp, she became aware of the bruises from her fall; her back ached dully from her shoulder blades down and her head pounded. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling battered.

The break didn’t last long. When her stomach clenched a third time, a spasm hit her lower back simultaneously, and she felt a warm gush of liquid between her legs. She let out a wail.

“Oh God,” she heard Owen say, and then his hand was gone, and she heard him shouting for a nurse. After a moment, he was back, his hands warm around hers. “It’s going to be all right, Concetta, it’s going to be all right.”

The next few hours were a blur for Concetta. She realized that her water had broken when someone—a nurse?—lifted the blanket that covered her, sending a draft of cool air up her legs; the labor pains continued, coming faster and faster until they hardly seemed to let up at all. She thought she heard the nurses asking Owen to leave, and she let out a moaning “noooo”; he grasped her hand warmly, and she heard him reply sharply to the nurses, though she didn’t understand the words.

As the contractions continued, she focused on Owen’s voice in her ear, telling her how much he loved her and that she could get through this. She hoped that he was right—this was pain unlike any she’d ever felt before, and it radiated from her head down her back and around her belly, culminating in the space between her thighs.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, she heard Owen say, “All right, Concetta, push now, push!” With a sobbing groan, she did just that, once, then twice, panting with effort in the moments between the waves. On the third push, she let out a scream and squeezed Owen’s hand so hard she thought she heard his knuckles crack; the release of pressure between her legs was painfully exquisite, and the next thing she heard was the soft wail of a newborn baby.

“It’s a boy, Concetta,” Owen’s voice, thick with tears, was at her ear again. “We have a son!”

With an effort—she was so tired—Concetta opened her eyes as the nurse brought the baby into view. He was bright red and wrinkly, covered in some sort of goo, and he had a full head of hair that was plastered to his skull with the fluids of birth. Concetta thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Sebastian,” she breathed, and she turned to look at Owen, whose smile was bright though tears streaked his cheeks.

“Sebastian,” he agreed softly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead as her eyes drooped closed. She dropped off to sleep, unable to stay awake any longer.

Concetta spent that night in the hospital, Owen sleeping in the chair beside her bed. The nurses woke her every hour to check her pupils and ask her a few quiet questions. She managed a few sips of water each time, and by morning, Concetta found that she was feeling much better. Her back and head still ached, as did the place between her legs, but the pain was bearable. When they brought Sebastian to her to nurse, she was eager to sit up and take him, pulling him close to her breast to silence his wails.

He had been washed, and she could see now that the shock of hair atop his head was a deep russet brown a few shades darker than his father’s. His eyes were still newborn blue—she hoped that they would change to match Owen’s gray, but time would tell—and she loved seeing the motions of his little pink tongue as he yelled out his hunger and frustration. The nurses helped her hold him to her breast and get him latched on, and the pinching pressure of his nursing felt miraculous. Tracing her finger over first his cheek and then the tiny hand that lay starfished against her breast, Concetta thought that he was surely the most beautiful baby that had ever been born.

Owen, who had sat up at the baby’s cries, ran a weary hand over his morning beard and winced at the crick in his neck.

“Look at our son, Owen,” Concetta said softly, her smile radiant. Owen looked at her and to her shock, he let out a wet sort of laugh, leaning forward to bury his face in her lap, his shoulders shaking. Concetta let out a concerned cry, cradling Sebastian with one arm as he busily suckled. She brought her other hand to stroke Owen’s hair and the back of his neck, making soft shushing noises to soothe them both.

“Oh God, Concetta,” Owen choked out after a little while. “I thought… I thought…”

“Owen, _tesoro mio_ , I am all right,” she whispered. “And Sebastian is all right. Look at him, my darling.”

Owen lifted his head and her heart broke a little at the anguish in his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks. She cupped his face, using her thumb to wipe the tears from beneath one eye, and he brought a hand up to cover hers, turning his face to press a kiss into her palm.

“Come, sit with us,” she said softly, scooting a little sideways on the bed to make room for her husband to sit beside her. Owen looped an arm around her shoulder and reached to cup the back of his son’s head.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Owen whispered, his eyes on Sebastian’s face. The baby had fallen asleep, releasing his mother’s nipple; his tiny pink mouth pursed and making occasional unconscious suckling motions. Owen reached across to pull Concetta’s cotton gown back over to cover her, stroking first her breast, then his son’s soft cheek.

“He looks like his father,” she replied, tilting her head to rest it against Owen’s shoulder.

“He has your golden skin, though,” Owen said, comparing the pink undertones of his hand against Sebastian’s fingers, “and the same dimple in his chin.” He raised his hand to cup her face, his thumb resting in that dimple. His eyes on hers were solemn.

“I thought I’d lost you, Concetta, and I couldn’t stand it.” His voice was soft but serious.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I’m going to be all right.” Tilting her head back, she lifted her mouth to his kiss, and their lips meeting felt like the first time. When he lifted his head, she nestled into him, the baby held securely in the crook of her arm. Owen stretched out his legs alongside hers, his own hand under Sebastian’s head as they laid down together, a family, and slept.


	11. A New Look at an Old Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue - Concetta runs into an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of my version of Concetta's happily every after, at least for the moment. I hope you've enjoyed it - thanks for reading, everyone! :D

**July 1934**

Concetta turned from putting Sebastian down in the children’s corner with his toy train. She was smiling, her son’s quiet “choo choo” noises charming her as they always did, when she stopped, shocked.

“Gianni?” she breathed, the name coming to her lips unbidden, her eyes on the broad-shouldered man just taking a seat at the restaurant’s long counter. Moving closer, she took him in. His hair was longer than it had been, and he was dressed casually, in tweed trousers and a blue sweater vest over a white shirt. She took a deep breath to brace herself, nervousness fluttering in her stomach at the thought of seeing Jack again after all this time. Coming up beside him, she turned to face him, her smile bright. “Gianni, how lovely to see—”

She stopped, looking closely at the young man. He was not Jack Robinson—indeed, he was no more than sixteen or seventeen. The boy looked very like Jack, though. His hair was the same deep brown but, unencumbered by pomade, it curled gently around his face. He had a similar sharply defined jawline, but his eyes were a pale blue, not the deep midnight she remembered.

“ _Chiedo scusa_ ,” she said at his surprised look. “I am sorry, I thought you were someone I knew. How may I help you today?” Concetta realized that she was a little flustered. She had stopped looking for Jack Robinson in the men she saw a long time ago, and she wasn’t sure now what had made her mistake this young man for her former lover. She forced a smile as she took his order, and then she hurried away.

When Owen came home that evening, she was still a little shaken, so she told him about the boy. He stepped up beside her in the kitchen and took her in his arms; she wrapped her arms around his neck, loving the feeling of the hard roundness of her six-months-pregnant belly pressed against his body.

“It was so odd, Owen. I have never mistaken someone for Jack before. I haven’t even thought of him in years. Why now?” Her eyes searched her husband’s, hoping for answers.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. But you loved him once. It’s not surprising that you’d glimpse him in the occasional face.”

Owen seemed unconcerned about this, Concetta thought. And why would he be concerned? Concetta might have loved Jack Robinson at one time, but that had been years ago. She loved Owen now; they had a beautiful child and another on the way. Her life was not perfect, but it was wonderful in a way that delighted her every day.

“You are probably right,” she said. “It was only strange.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he responded. “I don’t have to go in to the office, so I’ll stick around here and remind you of the people you love now. Bastian and I will drive thoughts of any other men out of your head, won’t we, son?”

Sebastian, who had just celebrated his third birthday, sat at the kitchen table beside his cousin Gioia, both of them busily slurping up spaghetti noodles. Vincenzo and Eleonora’s little girl was almost two, and both children’s faces were covered, forehead to chin, with marinara.

“Yes!” he said, waving his spoon at his mother.

“Yes!” Gioia echoed, her sweet face grinning at her cousin.

“You wan’ some s’getti, mama?” Sebastian turned his big brown eyes on his mother, holding out a handful of noodles and blinking owlishly. Concetta laughed.

“I think I’ll just come and eat yours, _mio figlio_ ,” she replied, moving toward him to cup his face in her hands and press kisses all over his messy cheeks, licking her lips and making exaggerated yummy noises as he giggled. When Gioia clapped her hands, sending bits of sauce flying, Concetta laughed and gave her the same treatment.

The next morning, Concetta heard the bell on the restaurant door ring as she straightened from setting Gioia in the playpen in the corner. She cast her eyes toward where Sebastian sat with a colorful book on his lap before turning to face the day’s first customers. She gasped as she came face to face with Jack Robinson, who stood quietly behind her, flanked by the young man who’d been in yesterday.

“Concetta,” he said, and his low voice rumbled just as she remembered. He wore much more casual clothing than she’d ever seen him in—a jacket but no vest, his shirt collar open at his throat.

“Jack,” she said, smiling. “Is it really you?”

Jack smiled. “I think that should be my line. When my son told me he’d met a lovely Italian woman who’d called him Gianni, I could hardly believe it. I thought you’d gone back to Italy.”

“Your son?” she said, her eyebrows raising in surprise. She flicked a glance over to the young man, who smiled shyly in response.

“Concetta Fabrizzi, meet my son, Nicolas,” Jack said, giving the name a French pronunciation as he turned to indicate the boy. No wonder she had mistaken Nicolas for Jack—they did indeed have the same jawline, the same straight nose with its upward tilt at the end, even the same shape to their lips. Nicolas shared Jack’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, too—only his eyes were different, a bright pale blue.

“It’s Concetta Merrick now, actually,” she said softly. “It is very nice to meet you, Nicolas.”

He nodded quietly. “I enjoyed my lunch yesterday very much,” he said. His voice was a match for Jack’s, too, she thought—not quite as resonant yet, but as deep, and flavored with a French accent. Concetta smiled her thanks.

“You’ve married?” Jack’s voice was warm, and his eyes flickered down to the roundness of her stomach under her apron.

“Yes, almost four years ago,” she said. “My husband should be down shortly. You can meet him.”

“Catch me, mama!” Concetta whipped around to see Sebastian streaking toward the restaurant door, giggling madly. This was a favorite game of his, and most of the neighborhood had joined in the effort to keep her son from reaching the outside world by himself. Right now, though, there was no one between him and the door.

“Bastian, no!” Concetta cried. She started after him, but Jack was faster.

“Oh no you don’t, young man,” he said, scooping Sebastian up. The boy laughed at his own game, clutching at his round belly. Jack grinned—an expression that Concetta could not remember ever seeing come so easily to his angular face—and tickled Sebastian. Concetta smiled to see her little red-haired hellion giggling in Jack’s arms. “And who is this?”

“Jack, meet _my_ son, Sebastian,” she said, reaching out to take him. Jack passed the boy over, and Sebastian wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck, pressing a wet kiss to her cheek. Concetta hugged him back automatically before putting him down. “Go find _papà_ , Bastian,” she said, pointing him toward the kitchen door and patting him on the bottom. “Where is _papà_?”

“ _Papà_!” Bastian shouted, running as fast as his little legs would carry him toward the kitchen. Concetta watched him go, a smile on her lips.

“You look happy,” Jack said softly.

“I am,” she replied, turning back to him. “Very much so.”

He nodded with seeming satisfaction. “Is this your restaurant?”

Concetta nodded. “Yes, Vincenzo’s and mine.”

“Vincenzo is here?”

“ _Sì_ , he runs the kitchen. The _panino_ that you had yesterday, Nicolas, that was one of my brother’s creations.” Jack’s eyes moved past her, and she turned to see Owen approaching, Bastian in his arms. “Ah! Owen, I’d like you to meet Jack Robinson and his son, Nicolas.” Owen’s eyebrows went up a little, but he held out a hand to Jack.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he said with a small smile. “Welcome to _Per Pranzo_.”

Concetta moved to wrap her arm around her husband’s waist, tickling Sebastian’s toes. Her son launched himself at her, and she caught him with the ease of long practice.

“And how is your Miss Fisher?” she asked Jack.

“Phryne is well, thank you,” he said. “She’s at home. Nico and I decided to take a weekend away.”

“We were going to go fishing, but neither of us appears to be much for the sport,” Nico put in with a grin. “Phryne will say she told us so.”

“She likely will.” Jack said, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder as he chuckled. “Perhaps we should just tell her that the fish weren’t biting. Though we’d probably have to go until we actually caught something before we lived that down.” He pretended to consider. “I know, we’ll take Collins with us next time—he actually enjoys fishing, and we can have all of the rewards with none of the work.”

“This is a good plan!” Nicolas laughed in a knowing way that told Concetta that he was familiar with his father and Miss Fisher’s teasing.

“Come, sit,” Concetta said, realizing that they were still standing in the middle of the floor, and that customers were beginning to flow in. Eleonora was bustling about, taking orders.

“Let me get you something,” Concetta said, passing her son back to Owen as she showed them to seats at the counter. Owen sat beside them, Sebastian on his lap. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Jack replied, his eyes on Owen. Concetta saw Jack's face take on what she thought of as his detective look as he surveyed her husband. “So, Owen, do you work in the restaurant too?”

“No, I’m an accountant,” Owen replied in his soft voice, his gray eyes steady on Jack, one large hand on Sebastian’s belly holding him securely in place. “And actually, I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time, inspector. I have something that I’d like to say to you.”

“Oh?” Jack said, and he stilled, tension in his shoulders.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Jack’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Why are you thanking me?”

Owen smiled slowly, and the joy in the expression was brilliant. “For letting Concetta go. If you hadn’t, she wouldn’t have come here and we wouldn’t have met.”

Concetta surveyed the men thoughtfully over the counter as she set a cup of espresso in front of each of them. Jack was her past, and she didn’t regret the time she’d spent with him. He had helped her become the woman that Owen had fallen in love with. Owen and Sebastian, her present and future, smiled their sweet smiles at her. These two and the new baby growing inside her were more than she’d ever hoped she’d find. They were her everything.

“No, _amore_ ,” Concetta shook her head, reaching across the counter to grasp Owen’s hand. “This was my destiny all along. I just had to find my way to it. To you.”

“Me, mama!” Sebastian climbed onto the counter to get to Concetta, and she laughed as she scooped him up, rubbing her nose against his.

“ _Sì_ , _mio figlio_ , and to you!” She lifted her head and met Jack’s eyes, which were warm.

“You were right, then,” he murmured. “And it looks to me that you’ve gotten what you deserve.”

“Better than I deserve, I think,” she replied, her eyes soft on Owen’s as she returned his smile. “The best.”


End file.
